One of my favorite online pals, Pirate Steve (he’s not really a pirate, I just like to think of him as one), recently requested I blog a little more. Despite the fact he was clearly drunk when he said that, I’ll just go ahead and indulge his whims and my ego–although this post will most likely be void of anything beneficial, and will undoubtedly contain only a big, long, lame excuse embedded in cute prose about the current goings-on of my life.
The Architect and I have been working weeknights from six to midnight, and every weekend on our renovation project. With the Architect having to deal with his day job for eight hours and then come home and do manual labor, I’ve decided to step up the housefrau activities to make his life as easy as possible. I’ve taken over the yard work (why hasn’t lawn mower motor technology improved in the past fifty years?) and the task of taking things to the dump (made easier by my recent acquisition of a 1977 GMC Sierra Camper Classic V-8 pickup aptly named “The Beast”). I do laundry on a daily basis and do my best to keep the sawdust out of the “living” areas. And did I mention my recent, fifties-esque compulsion to have dinner ready when the Architect walks in the door?
Yep. I’ve turned into the UberCleaver. But, you know, if we’re splitting hairs about mid-century television housewives, I’d rather picture myself as a raven-haired Samantha Stevens–although if we’re being totally honest, I’m painfully aware I’ll always be more like her snarky, over-eyelinered mother, Endora.
Yesterday evening, after a day of grocery shopping and errand-running, I accompanied the Architect to a historic district review, where we pleaded our case for replacing our windows. Actually, he pleaded and I sat in the audience. It sounds cruel, sending him to the gallows on his own, but really, what would I have to add to the discussion that he couldn’t handle?
“No, no, no. Honey. Please. I’m a dark fantasy writer. Let me handle this.”
So, I watched as they argued if our dinky little house was “significant.” Then they grilled the Architect about why we couldn’t just repair the crooked, broken, air-leaking windows that currently have to have ugly storms slapped over them in winter. And he argued his case. He touched on the artistic points and the structural concerns of putting straightened windows back into crooked holes. And he won. We can tear out these things and put in new, energy efficient windows that do amazing things like stay open. But, for all you history lovers, don’t worry. We’re not chucking the old windows into the landfill; right now we’re tossing around the idea of making them into an interior wall/sculpture.
Well, that’s about the best I can do for now. As I warned before, this post had nothing to do with writing, because, honestly, right now my life has nothing to do with writing. But, don’t give up on me just yet; the construction will end sooner or later–at the very least, we’ll run out of money.
And to my friends Charles and Lana down in LA, I’m watching the Gulf and hoping you’re okay.
Here’s a photo proving renovations really are murder: