House Tour

I hope you like messes, because my house is filled with them. Only these days it’s not plaster dust, rubble and piles of ancient square-head nails. But I promised a tour and, gosh darn it, I’m going to give you a damned tour.

Welcome! Our foyer is a bit drafty, and will stay that way until The Big C installs the custom storm door we ordered. Nothing fancy, just something to keep our money in the bank, where it belongs, instead of feeding our boiler.

This is the foyer looking out. We still need a heater cover, which The Big C will build for us someday.

Come inside the living room! The fireplace doesn’t work, but we plan to install a gas insert someday. And by “we” I most certainly do not mean “we.”

This is where our Christmas tree lived … and died, I suppose, if we’re getting technical. Right now it serves as a coat catch-all, dance floor and newspaper reading area.

Here is our TV and a woefully empty wall. True story: After months of hard-core, forever-type decisions about tile and flooring and carpet and fixtures, we are all but paralyzed when it comes to making a decision about hanging a simple picture. It’s bizarre.

I told you it was messy. This is real living, folks! Life is not a magazine! Moving on.

Here’s the dining room, one of our favorite spaces. The pass-through still needs trim and I’m permanently annoyed with the table, but we adore the light and Flor tile rug.

At one end of the dining room we have a love seat and a table that belonged to Chris’ grandmother.

At the other we have a desk of his grandmother and an Ikea chair that belonged to us when we lived in Los Angeles. Ah, heirlooms.

Also at that end we have our dog crate. In a week or two they’ll move permanently to the mud room, which is still under construction.

The pass-through to the kitchen has a small cabinet for glassware and liquor, as well as a small wine fridge.

Now we walk into the kitchen. Straight ahead is the basement door. To the left is the soon-to-be mud room.

This is our island, otherwise known as Where Bella Sliced Her Face Open, Resulting In A Trip To The ER. But that’s a story for another time.

Look! We really use our sink!

This is the view from the mud room. Speaking of which …

We are so excited for this room to be functional. Notice I did not say “finished.” That word is no longer in my vocabulary.

That’s it for the first floor. Unless you have to go to the bathroom. Oh, you do? Then follow me!

It’s small, but it works!

I’ll show you the second floor later, OK?

So, Yeah, It’s Been A Year

Who thought I’d take a solid year’s sabbatical from blogging my family’s home renovation? Certainly not me. Certainly not you. I’ve gotten some guff from people these past twelve months, I’ll tell you, but I’m back and I’ll try to do better.

What’s happened since we last interacted over the Internet?

I got a new job. We got a new car. We moved in. We did, you know, stuff.

To say that the last year has harbingered changes for our small family is an understatement, but it’s been a great year in so many ways.

We live here now. We have new windows (though we’re running a little short on doors).

We enjoyed our first Christmas with the world’s largest tree.

It looked smaller outside

I developed an unhealthy obsession with decorating our mantle.

Fall mantle

Winter mantle

And I also purchased an iPhone that kindly accepted my request to download the free WordPress app. Tomorrow, I will walk through my house and snap photos of where we are. Then, if all goes well, I’ll spend the next few months telling you how we got here.

Thanks for waiting.

Adventures in Flooring

There came a moment, one morning during the four-day span when I became a tried-and-true flooring contractor, when I thought I would die. My joints had apparently developed a severe hatred of one another, and were doing whatever it took to separate, with prejudice. My fingernails were snagged and broken. Thick blisters dotted the insides of my hands, just below where my fingers meet my palm. They were now curled inward, and my knuckles were swollen and arthritic. As I stared at the ceiling, trying not to move, I’d wonder if my wrists would give out again when I tried to push myself into a standing position.

But I wasn’t worried. There was one thing that would cure me: A hot shower. And not just regular hot. Restorative showers must be sweltering hot to do any good. And that week when I installed the floors in all three bathrooms, the master closet and the laundry room, my  showers were skin-reddening, toe-curling, pass-out-from-the-steam hot.

When I limped into the house the morning after finishing the guest bathroom, The Big C was sympathetic.

“See?” he said. “Now you know why I told you to never trust a contractor that doesn’t drink. Only two things dull the pain: hot showers and alcohol.”

So enough about my pain. On to the work.

Over Thanksgiving break, I started with the guest bathroom. We chose a waterproof vinyl product for all of the wet areas in the house (except the kitchen): Konecto. It’s very easy to install, and perfect for old houses because it’s a floating floor. The vinyl makes it flexible — so the floor doesn’t have to be perfectly level, the way it does if you’re installing tile. It’s not cheap, but if you install it yourself then it evens out with tile. Plus, I am irrationally anti-tile. It’s cold and slippery and that’s that.

Anyway. On to the photos.

The first few rows

Everyone should install flooring wearing slip-ons

Done! The flash makes the room look like a ball of sunshine, doesn't it?

You cut Konecto with a box cutter. First you score it a few times, then you snap the plank.

We're putting a pedestal sink in here, so I didn't have to cut the holes individually, like I did in other rooms. And by "I" I mean "The Big C."

It's not real wood, but it plays wood on TV.

After that job was finished, I was euphoric — completely unaware of the crippling physical misery I’d be in the next morning. But a million winces and one hot shower later, I tackled the girls’ bathroom.

The girls' bathroom, before the subfloor was down.

The Big C with his ever-present pencil, laying down the subfloor.

In progress

Done!

Next up was the master closet and laundry room. I helped The Big C lay down the subfloor. He let me use the power staple gun. It was really cool, even if he made me wear safety goggles. Sorry I can’t show you how bad-ass I looked; I didn’t have the guts to ask him to take my picture using it.

I also failed to take good “before” pictures, so you’ll have to be satisfied with the “afters.”

Full boxes of Konecto are off to the left.

Finally came the master bathroom. I was under the gun with this one, since we had a house full of family and friends working their tails off with the intent to do a major, necessary project: Move the massive bathroom vanity from the first floor to the second floor. And they couldn’t do that without a bathroom floor.

So I worked like a madwoman to get it finished.

Keeping the floor clean as you work is really important, so the Shop Vac is our bestest buddy.

This lovely curved corner was a total bitch to make perfect. But I did. 🙂

I am dismayed to admit that I was so exhausted by the time I was finished with the master bathroom that I failed to take “after” pictures. But you can sort of see what it looks like by looking at the process of moving our Pottery Barn vanity into the space. Yes, we are “those people.” The kind who buy Pottery Barn furniture online like we’re all fancy and stuff. If it makes you feel any better, that’s the only piece we bought from Pottery Barn — and the marble top was broken during shipping. The universe has punished us for our high-falutin’ ways.

My camera-shy brother-in-law, Andrew

The middle (we taped the doors so they wouldn't fly open)

My father-in-law, hoping this isn't a hernia-in-progress.

In place, sans broken marble top.

I couldn’t have done the flooring without The Big C, and he has paid me a few quiet compliments on my work since our week of working side-by-side on the house. The Plaster Wizards were amazed I did it all by myself, and said they want me to come and install Konect in their houses. The Big C scratched his chin and said, “Tiling wasn’t your thing, but you might just make it as a flooring contractor.”

It made me feel great to hear that, but here’s the truth of the matter: There aren’t enough hot showers in the world to make it happen.

Contractor Humor

We have our own special relationship with The Big C. We love him for reasons that have been explained in this blog many times before.

But as for The Big C?  He has other relationships to worry about, and I’ll guarantee you he’s not blogging about them.

He has a few others, actually — special relationships with subcontractors he’s worked with countless times before, and has recommended to us. Like good clients, we have obligingly hired his cohorts to do some specialty work on our project.

The Paster Wizard has worked magic. The heating dude, grizzled and tanned beyond belief for someone who spends his days in basements, has given us the quietest boiler known to man. And The Big C rules them all.

It’s actually funny, seeing how they interact. The Plaster Wizard and his crew leave coffee cups all over the worksite (which, of course, is actually OUR HOUSE … but to them, it’s a worksite).

Coffee in our closet.

Coffee in our master bathroom.

This pisses The Big C off to no end. Seriously, he hates this stray coffee cup bullshit. He bitches about it on a daily basis, when he’s not sending me texts like this:

"Nice floor," he wrote.

The above, of course, was our guest bathroom before The Big C replaced the floor and The Plaster Wizard and his team did their magic.

The guest bathroom now looks like this:

To the left is the toilet cove. After that is the shower. Do you like the phrase "toilet cove?" I freaking love it.

This is the guest shower.

How can you shave in a dark shower? Women everywhere want to know. Because we totally can’t.  That’s why there’s a light in the guest shower.

Do you see the light? I do.

The Big C and his subcontractors work together, yet separately, to get the job done. He has immense faith and trust in them, yet they do things that annoy him. Like leave coffee cups everywhere.

And in the long run, that’s not so bad. Better coffee than the little gift the previous owner’s contractor left in the guest bathroom floor.

It's 5:00 somewhere.

But there’s more to this story.

When I did the disastrous tile job in the girls’ bathroom, I had the distinct pleasure of working The Big C’s tile saw. He’d watch me put my own fingers in jeopardy, cutting these tricky, frustrating mosaics to fit, then turn his attention to the open basement doors.

“Bobby!” he’d yell.

No answer.

He’d move a little closer, yell a little louder.

“BOBBY!”

A shaggy-haired, sixty-something man would climb out of the hazardous wooden steps that lead out of the basement.

“I thought you might have hit your head,” said The Big C. His tone was lighthearted, with a testosterone edge I recognized. But it wasn’t as hearty has I’d expected. I realized, with a flip in my heart, that The Big C wasn’t kidding. He’d meant what he said. He’d really was afraid for his old friend.

He trusted Bobby’s work, but he didn’t trust his friend’s body to keep on ticking.

Bobby was fine that day, and he’s still fine today. But The Big C still worries about him (though he’d never admit it, even under oath).

And he still tussles with the young, and imminently aggravating, Plaster Wizard.

The Plaster Wizard at work.

They leave each other cute little notes, like this:

Aw, ain't that just the cutest thang?

They have cute little conversations, like so:

 

"No Drywall." "Why not?" " I said so."

That’s contractor-subcontractor love, right there.

A Design Philosophy

Hi! I know, it’s been awhile. How are you? We’re good. You know, working on the house.

Yeah, the house. No, we’re not moving in any time soon. Christmas. We have to be in by Christmas because my family is flying and driving in from California and New York. Christmas is my holiday, you see, and not even an empty shell of a kitchen and only one functioning toilet will prevent me from claiming the hosting of Christmas as my birthright.

But it’s going well! Chris is over there every night painting. Yes, painting. I know that sounds as if we’re going to move in tomorrow, but we’re not as close as you might think to being done.

Oh, you heard about the bathroom? It’s kind of a wreck. You know, since there’s no floor.

Where's the floor?

Oh — you meant the master bathroom. The floorless hellhole pictured above is just the guest bathroom. No one really cares about that, right? Except, of course, our guests. (Hi, mom! Hi, Lindsey and Ben! I promise you will be able to bathe by Christmas!)

So you’ve heard about our master bathroom, eh? The pedestal tub. The “beautification station” (aka the makeup table). The shower.

I’ll say it again: THE SHOWER.

Plenty of room to get clean.

There will be two shower heads. There will be a bench. There will be gorgeous rectangular lights interspersed in the tile. The lights are designed for use outside, on deck stairs, so they’re waterproof — always a good thing for a shower. The Big C was the mastermind behind that idea. I heart him.

He says it’s the biggest shower he’s ever built, and I can’t lie — Chris and I are kind of proud of that.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not really HEY LOOK AT US WE ARE SO OUT THERE AND WILD kind of people. We’re not wild. We’re not out there. And if you look at us, we are the epitome of mild. Chris wears suits to work, and I wear flats.

It’s safe to say that this shower is the craziest thing we’ve ever done in our whole, entire lives.

The second-craziest thing we’ve ever done in our lives is design our bathroom’s morning kitchen.

Site of our future morning kitchen.

Now, hear me out. My grandmother had a “summer kitchen,” which was a small room off the back of the kitchen that was supposed to relieve the regular kitchen from the heat of cooking in the sweltering Maine summers. Smart idea, right? Design is all about how you use a space, and how its function can help or hinder your everyday life.

For my grandmother, a summer kitchen made sense. For me, a morning kitchen makes sense.

Allow me to explain.

Every morning Chris walks downstairs the kitchen, pours two cups of coffee, then walks upstairs to deliver one to me and drink his own as we get dressed and pull our girls’ hair into pigtails. Now, I have to admit that while Chris is darned cute, he’s not perfect. Sometimes he trips over a rolling Barbie head on his way up the stairs and spills the coffee on the carpet. And remember, it’s dark in the morning. He doesn’t know where he spilled. Plus, he’s got two full, steaming mugs of coffee in his hands and where the hell is he supposed to put them while he hunts for a towel to mop up the coffee before it stains? He’s in a very, very difficult situation.

The kind of situation that can ruin a man’s whole morning.

So I thought … why not put a coffee maker in the bathroom? Why not add a small fridge for the flavored Coffeemate we love so dearly? And hey — if Chris wants to throw a beer or two in there, so be it. If we decide to stow a bottle of champagne for romantic evenings, I think that’s lovely. Those are occasional uses, for sure, but on a daily basis he won’t have to worry about stray Barbie heads or spilling on our bazillion-dollar carpet (believe me, at this stage of the renovation every single purchase feels like a budge-busting, bazillion-dollar purchase).

I designed this morning kitchen for my husband’s sanity.

The plaster/drywall crew is putting up drywall this week, taping and mudding it, and we should be able to paint this weekend. We’re also heading up to Lumber Liquidators in Wilkes Barre to see if we can’t get a good deal on some flooring for the first floor.

Yeah, we’re going with wood for the whole thing, even the kitchen. It’s flying in the face of convention — and popular practice, according to the tile-happy HGTV — but I love to cook and my back sometimes aches during my favorite holiday — Christmas, natch — which involves many hours of happy cooking with my family to prepare the nonstop food extravaganza that makes Christmas so awesome. Wood is forgiving, ya’ll … just like Santa Claus.

Anyway. Questions? Concerns? A sense of deep, indescribable horror? Feel free to let us know in the comments.

The Big C has done away with half the fireplace in the kitchen, and he started framing it out today. Once I see it with my own eyes (and my own camera), I’ll share it with you.

Also, a big shout-out to my tireless father-in-law, who has spent the past few weeks slaving away. His cleaning prowess is so impressive the The Big C has said he’d put him on the payroll anytime. His painting and taping skillz are so impressive that we’d be weeks behind without him. Thanks, Don. We’ll give you a BandAid anytime.

 

 

Pride Goeth, Goeth, Gone

I think I’m ready to talk about it.

Yeah, I still have flashbacks. Cold sweats at night. Sometimes I think I feel dried mortar on my arms and scramble to find a container of Lava soap before realizing NO! — it’s over. It’s over. My pathetic attempt at tiling the girls’ bathtub surround is over.

I still dream of pulling desperately (with only my fingertips) at mosaic tile sheets held together by a thin, brown layer of paper to protect their glass finish.

Word from the wise: Don’t ever, ever buy mosaic tile sheets covered by a thin layer of paper to protect their glass finish. Go for the kind with mesh on the back.

The Big C tried to warn me. He furrowed his brow when I mentioned mosaics, and was frankly baffled by the paper holding the 12 x 12 sheets together.

“First of all, mosaics are a bitch. Second of all, where’s the mesh?” he asked.

“Oh,” I replied breezily, “it doesn’t have mesh. The paper holds it together, and once you’ve set the tile you just wet it and wipe it off!”

“Then how do you see if it looks OK?” he asked, not unreasonably.

But I, in fact, was unreasonable. I see that now. Alas, I was a cheerful, idiotic fool back then.

“Big C,” I said, tilting my head as if I was talking to a puppy instead of an experienced contractor trying hard not to strangle me. “I think I have a lot of tiling skill hiding deep inside me. I really think I’m a natural. Once I watch you do your thing, and you show me how to do it, I think I’ll surprise you. Maybe even impress you. You’ll see.”

The Big C grunted and I started planning parties that required guests to tromp up two flights of stairs for the sole purpose of witnessing my tiling gifts first-hand.

And so it began.

I took the day off work to attend Bella’s Johnny Appleseed Day in the morning, then tile for the rest of the day with The Big C. And it started off so well.

We determined that The Big C would tile the ceiling while I watched. He wasn’t happy about my choice to tile the ceiling, I might add. But I think the gorgeous arched tub area he’d created would look stupid with just a tub/shower insert, and I worried that the arch would trap steam and make it a haven for mold or crackle the paint. So I insisted.

The Big C, it must be noted, swears a great deal while tiling.

*&$%#@ &^$@$%!!!!!!!

While The Big C went to town on that ceiling, I helpfully pointed out areas in which he could improve. Since the tile didn’t accommodate normal plastic spacers, it all had to be done by eye. I naturally figured two sets of eyes were better than one, and I applaud him for not drop-kicking me out the window.

For awhile, based solely on my deep conviction that I could tile like a pro with no experience and minimal training, I discussed aloud the possibilities of the two of us launching our own contracting business. As The Big C sweated and swore, I even thought of a name: The Grump and Girl. I suggested this cheerfully as he strained to pull another wretched mosaic sheet even with the rest.

Luckily he was drowning in mortar falling from the ceiling and therefore couldn’t grout my mouth shut.

He achieved perfection despite being terminally annoyed. By me.

After he’d finished the ceiling, The Big C showed me how to mix mortar with a frightening tool that resembles a spinning jackhammer. Then he showed me how to use the wet saw. Then he watched me apply the first row of tile and said he had to be somewhere.

I was alone. With mortar and piles of tile.

I remained cheerful for far longer than I should have.

The first bucket of mortar I mixed up didn’t result in the sticky, smooth, peanut butter consistency I’d been shooting for, but I told myself lumps didn’t matter.

The first solo cut on the wet saw shattered the last tile into a vicious mass of shards, but I told myself that grout covers a multitude of sins.

The second row of tiles (laid after The Big C abandoned me left) were grossly uneven, and I started to panic.

Forgive me for not taking more photos; I was covered in mortar. I was sweating and swearing. I was wishing I was anywhere but there. I was ruing the day I’d ever found that horrible website selling that horrible tile.

I finally quit when the rows were so uneven they looked like a jagged mural of the Swiss Alps. And I left The Big C a note apologizing profusely for my arrogance and begging him — BEGGING HIM — to fix the mess I’d made.

Observe my utter failure:

Those gaping holes will someday house shampoo bottles. After The Big C fixes them.

See how certain tiles popped out once the paper was removed? That's not stellar craftsmanship, people.

There is a bright side to that ill-fated day. Bella had a great time at Johnny Appleseed Day, and we even made the newspaper.

I'll stick to apple art from now on.

Still, I left my pride in that bathtub. I thought a million hours watching muscled, grinning television hosts tile bathrooms in 30 seconds prepared me to do it myself. I assumed that The Big C could dash off a few instructions and I’d be just fine.

I now know that The Grump and The Girl will never come to fruition. And to be honest, I’m kind of glad. Because I really hate tiling.

We May Have Made The Big C Cry

In every painting project, there is a period of self-doubt. That split-second when you realize that the calm, pleasant, silvery color you’ve chosen for every single ceiling and closet interior is the same shade of drab, drywall gray you’ve been trying to cover for two hours. That moment when you startle yourself by unconsciously humming a certain commercial’s jingle, and realize that the Sherman Williams Teaberry the girls picked for their room is less princess and more Pepto.

Don’t even get me started on tiling.

The Big C has endured two weeks of solid disappointment from us. First I attempted to tile the girls’ tub surround, only to admit defeat and beg for him to fix it. That, dear readers, is another post for another time.

Then came the priming. Oh, dear heavens, the priming.

Our first mistake, which garnered a stunned blink or two from our beloved contractor, was to purchase primer that was 100% tinted. The Big C prefers that primer be tinted to 10% of the color, so there is no chance of missing a spot when the top coat goes on.

With this painting crew, I think it's safe to say we'll miss a few spots.

Our second mistake, which caused The Big C to drop his jaw in disbelief, was to paint the walls with rollers before we’d cut in. Just as a careful kindergartner wields her Crayon, when painting it’s important to do all of the edging first to help you stay in the lines. I did most of the girls’ nausea-calming walls and Chris did most of their drywall-colored ceiling before The Big C made a special telephone call to inform us of this egregious error.

"Hello? Why, yes, I'm painting right now, Big C! Is there a problem?"

But we weren’t finished screwing up. Not even close.

Third on the list of Reasons Chris and Heather Should Keep Their Day Jobs was that we failed to leave a “wet edge.” We stopped before finishing a wall, or a room, or a ceiling. We just sort of … stopped. Whenever we felt tired or hungry or started to wonder if our DVR was buckling under the pressure of having us away so long.

When The Big C inspected our work the next morning, I imagine he swallowed his tongue in horror. It’s just a guess, based solely on the incoherent sputtering noises he made on the phone when he called to inquire whether we were just really, really lazy or really, really stupid.

Both, I told him.

The final mistake we made when priming the third floor of our lovely, old house, was perhaps the simplest: We didn’t put enough paint on the roller. “You’ve really got to load it up,” The Big C told Chris after he’d laid in wait to ambush Chris during his daily mail pickup. “I mean, really load it up.”

He's talking to you, Sophie.

Like I said, The Big C has been through a lot these past few weeks. And I haven’t even gotten to the tiling debacle. I’ll save that for tomorrow, after Chris finishes painting the ceiling.

Load it up, Chris. Load it up.

All About Clothes

You may have heard that we are using three rooms on the second floor to create one giant, excessive, hedonistic, over-the-top, you-have-to-be-kidding-me master suite.

It’s okay. We know you’re all thinking it.

The bedroom is basically untouched, except for adding a door to our closet, which already had a door connecting it to what will become our bathroom. We’re carving the laundry room out of the master closet, and it will connect to both the master closet and the hallway. This was Chris’ idea.

It’s hard to envision what it will look like when it’s a bunch of blank rooms.

This is the closet. To the left is the door to the master bath. On the right is what will be the laundry room.

Chris and his brother, Andrew, spent a fun-filled  day ripping the lathe and plaster out from in between the door and what used to be a closet. The Big C put up some studs, so it looked like this:

Look familiar?

There is drywall up now, along with lighting, but we need to take photos. This weekend we’ll play photographic catch-up and then watch out! The blog will be smokin’!

The girls’ bathroom has seen lots of changes. Behold, a tub surround!

The curve at the top mirrors the curve above the window. Exactly. (The Big C wanted us to tell you that.)

The girls’ bedroom has closets!

Some day these closets will be choked with clothes. And, hopefully, we'll take care of those pesky holes in the floor.

At the rate things are going, the girls will be able to move into the house a live quite comfortably long before Chris and I can — despite our palatial (and unfinished) master suite.

They will be lonely.

Who's going to help Sophie into the bathtub with absurdly high sides?

We will work hard to make sure this fate does not befall our children.

Progress of All Kinds

We’ve been busy. Silent (on the blog), but busy.

We sold our old house and moved into a townhouse (temporarily) while renovations are wrapped up on the new (old) house.

Do you see what I did there? I said “wrapped up,” as though all we need to do is polish the floors and take that plastic film off the brand-new stainless steel appliances in our pristine kitchen.

That’s not exactly the case.

Our kitchen still looks like this:

Your eyes do not deceive you. That is a saw in the middle of our kitchen.

We have only one working toilet and one working sink, and they are not in the same room.

Every surface is coated with fine plaster dust. Either the Plaster Wizard has been having his way with the walls, or they’ve turned our house into a thriving cocaine distribution center.

We really don't want to know what's in those buckets.

But still, progress has been made in the past month. Insulation has been installed in the third-floor ceiling.

Given how much it cost, we were surprised to learn this product is not made of actual silver.

Studs have been nailed into place, and covered with drywall. A bathtub has been installed. A vanity has been delivered. Approval for replacement windows has been garnered from the Historical Association Review Board. All of that is good, but relatively insignificant compared to the personal progress we’ve made.

We said goodbye to first home.

Chris started a new job.

Bella lost a tooth and started school.

Sophie joined a new class at daycare and embarked on the seemingly endless journey to being potty trained.

And we squeezed into a rented townhouse to wait for this beauty to be finished.

Ours is on the left.

We have more to share, and posts will come fast and furious now that we’ve got our bearings and some wind in our sails. Thanks for sticking around …

Compromises

Everyone talks about their Dream House.

Girls are exposed to this idea early, thanks to Barbie’s Dream House, and thus that particular vision of perfection involves lots of pink and plastic — initially, at least. I have an hunch that boys’ idea of a Dream House involves mostly electronics and spontaneous bouts of professional wrestling, but I’m only guessing because I only have girls and my husband and I seem incapable of talking about anything other than plaster and HVAC and renovation budgets.

Girls rule, boys drool.

There is good news, people. We can return the garden sprayer filled with an invaluable mixture of Downey fabric softener and water to a wise and helpful friend.

You were our light, our love, our salvation. I won't miss you.

We can try to forget about the endless weeks scraping wallpaper and smooshing glue off the edge of a dull blade. It will take awhile to erase those memories, but with the help of our supportive and engaged children, we should enjoy a swift recovery.

"I can't take this pressure anymore, Mommy!"

Through our hard work and devotion to a house we’ve never actually lived in, most of the walls are being re-plastered by a veritable Wizard and the dodgy bits are being salvaged with drywall. The moldings are next in line for repair, not to mention that the entire house has been re-wired and re-plumbed. We are getting a hell of lot of bang for our buck and, at first glance, that coveted Dream House seems like an entirely gettable goal.

But this isn’t a first-glance project. And there is a dark cloud named HVAC hanging over our Dream House.

You see, I am actually a very reasonable person. Flexible. I wouldn’t exactly compare myself to Gumby, but on the whole I’m easy to work with. I bend. I sway. I can roll with the punches.

No one knows this better than The Big C. We’ve had our moments, and in the end we always see to reason. But one area we could not agree on was the HVAC. Well, I guess we agreed on the H part. And I’m not sure what is involved with the “V” part, so I suppose we agree on that because I’m a bit spotty on the particulars. But when it comes to the AC … well … let’s just say I had some preferences.

I hate the look of mini-splits.

There are no words.

They are, by far, the easiest product to install in old homes (and are therefore, usually, cheaper). They take up almost no space and are incredibly efficient because you can control each unit based on your particular needs at any time. And, since our house has a guest suite, this would be very helpful during times when we have no guests. They also have a heat pump to provide some warmth during spring and fall seasons when you don’t want to launch the boiler into overdrive to heat the whole dang house. The Big C calls them “chicklets” because of how they look in the wall.

Totally practical. Totally logical. Totally ugly.

So I started researching. I found the mini-duct systems, which could wind and weave their way through beams in old houses with minimal damage and zero ugly wall units.

Cute! And invisible!

Both HVAC contractors would have tucked themselves into their shells and rolled away, if they could have, when I asked for estimates on installing the mini-duct systems. One, memorably, asked me if I had small dogs or children. When I answered yes to both, he assured me that the mini-duct systems blow out cool air at such a high velocity that any small creature standing beneath it would be shot clear across the room.

“I should also mention,” he added helpfully, “that these systems are also quite noisy.”

So, I guess that’s a NO on the mini-duct system.

Almost all of the HVAC contractors agreed that conventional A/C units could be installed in some areas of the house, and the rest would be best served by the horrendous, ugly, vomit-inducing mini-split systems. But the area that really needs it — the third floor — would be a different story. One they didn’t want to write.

One angelic contractor offered a way of installing the mini-split systems so that they were invisible — a ducted ductless system, if you will. This sent The Big C’s head on such an emphatic shaking jag I was afraid it would fall clear off his shoulders.

I was all for it. Loved it. Still do, in fact, and would totally pay the ridiculous fee he charges for such miracles if the dude ever called me back. But it’s summer, you see, and they’re too busy to return phone calls or emails or the nightly smoke signals I’ve been sending up for the past two weeks.

This is problematic, simply because time is of the essence.

Walls and ceilings remain open as we wait for this HVAC pied piper.

The guest bathroom, which is now mostly just an empty room with no ceiling.

The Big C gnaws his fingernails waiting to give the go-ahead to the Plaster Wizard and his crew to “button up” the third floor. He has ordered the replacement windows so he can keep inching forward, even though he told us at the beginning of the project that those windows were something that could be completed while we were living in the house, to save us money on rent.

And that’s when it hit me. The Big C wants to save us money. And I want to save us money. And my saint-like husband is sitting on his hands while I dig my heels in on this one stupid detail. My aversion to these chicklets was the one thing standing between me and a finished house. Everyone was waiting on MY HVAC GUY to call us back, and he clearly had better things to do.

So I did the only thing I could do: I told Chris to tell The Big C to get the chicklets. He didn’t believe me at first, but after a few heartfelt assurances that this was real and not a particularly cruel bout of PMS, he made the call.

I couldn’t tell The Big C myself, you see.

After all, a girl has her pride.