Krissie’s bedroom (aka Lani’s bedroom, aka the front bedroom, aka the guest room, aka my bedroom for right now) is tiny (9′ x 9′) with an even tinier bathroom attached. It has a ridiculously small closet under the stairs–the hanging pole is twelve inches–and that means we have to have supplementary storage: a coat rack and wall racks for hanging clothes, a tower for storage boxes, hanging organizers for make-up and meds (no bathroom cabinets, either), and a chest of drawers for folding clothes. Did I mention this bedroom is tiny? Continue reading
My Bad Wolf had a field day with the fireplace in the cottage last week. It’s such a small house that one fireplace could probably heat the whole downstairs, but unfortunately, the Chimney Guy who came to check it out told me that the furnace is illegally vented through the chimney which is crumbling and that to fix it requires repointing the massive stone chimney outside, ripping out the brick and the cabinets and the walls (which I just got finished putting back) and rebuilding everything. Or there’s option two, venting the new furnace a different way and putting in an enclosed glass fireplace that will probably heat the whole downstairs for the bargain price of around $10,000. My Bad Wolf ate big on that one, telling me what an idiot I was for buying a cottage in which everything is rotting, rusted, or covered in mold.
Of course, he didn’t eat for long. Continue reading
I woke up this morning and decided to be helpful. I’m the world’s worst houseguest — I never offer to help, do dishes, cook, etc. We figured out last night that that’s one reason why Crusie never feels guilt towards me. Because I’m always asking her to bring me things and I always give her such unvarnished truth (though occasionally I try and fail to be tactful about it) that she doesn’t have a chance to feel she’s done wrong or failed me. I just tell her what I need.
However, in an excess of zeal, I got up, started making steel cut oats and thought I’d wash the dishes while I waited. Then remembered a conversation yesterday where I said I never finished cleaning a kitchen, never wiped off the counters so it looked nice.
I decided to do so. Unfortunately Crusie had been painting in the middle of the night, and she’d used a fresh gallon of white paint for the chair legs. And I was just a tiny bit too forceful trying to wipe around it, and ga-thunk, splat, splash, goosh, and “fuck fuck fuck.”
Jenny comes flying up from downstairs, thinking I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.
Makes me feel marginally better as she’s kneeling on the floor trying to soak up at least half a gallon of thick white acrylic paint that landed on the hardwood floor.
But the oatmeal didn’t burn, most of the paint is up (though I’m wearing some), Crusie’s gone back to bed and I’m sitting here with the fire, having eaten the most delicious big bowl of steel cut oatmeal (made with water coz I hate milk and always have), fresh strawberries and blueberries and Splenda brown sugar mix. (Probably too much real sugar in there but I didn’t use much).
So all is well and I can settle down and work for a while.
I’m just wondering what Alastair and Lani were doing upstairs while I was having my crisis. Guess they were … uh … otherwise occupied.
High point of last night: explaining blow jobs to Lani’s angelic twelve-year old daughter. (Of course Fake Aunt Krissie got tapped to do the job, and I … er … rose to the occasion, with Jenny’s helpful kibitzing because I was describing it from a woman performing said BJ and Lani and Jenny reminded me that men do too. Of course.)
Fortunately that child’s got an old, wicked soul.
Because I’m tired of talking about kale, I’m making plans for painting the cottage. There’s an insane set of stairs up to the loft/attic, really steep, really narrow, really dark, and no room to replace them with something better.
Mary Kay Andrews’ cottage reminded me of how much I love painted furniture. I always drool over the Mackenzie-Childs furniture which is freakishly expensive but still lust-able (I love checks so that’s a part of that, too). And I’ve always loved painted cottage furniture and painted cottage floors. Well, basically, I love paint.
But when it comes time to actually slap the stuff on, I hesitate, sometimes for years. Continue reading