The cloud of gloom has lifted a little bit. Dad's back at home and is a bit more himself, though still reasonably subdued. He was asking questions about our renovation on the phone, and while not proffering pearls of wisdom on the point as he would normally, the interest itself is incredibly satisfying to hear.
We're taking it as 'today is a good day, we'll see about tomorrow' every day at the moment, because inevitably the peaks and troughs will continue.
On Thursday I was on the point of abandoning everything again and jumping on a plane (the evident misery in Mum's voice and the pain Dad was in being too much to be so far away), but as things improved and my aunt confirmed she was going for a visit, I left it be. It was really nice to spend the entire weekend (aside from a grocery trip) in our house, snuggling the cats, baking, preparing meals for the kind volunteers helping with painting and digging kukuyu grass from the lawn (bizarre therapy, I know, but therapy nonetheless). P's been a saint. He gently suggested catching up with friends, but left it alone when I didn't display any enthusiasm. I sense he's chafing a bit from the confinement and the unrelenting renovation work but he's being so understanding and patient. I'm back with Mum and Dad Saturday morning at the latest.
Autumn set in yesterday, though we still managed to eat lunch outside. Grey cloud, a little later drizzle, rain overnight. Someone lit a fire nearby and the smoke smelled appropriate, even though it was all through my clean laundry fresh off the line. Our bedroom is very close to complete and will be lovely and warm once we move in following the wardrobe installation this Friday. We'll start the second bedroom immediately after, to prepare for the colder months to come.
Showing posts with label i want a house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i want a house. Show all posts
Sunday, 12 April 2015
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
progress
The renovations are actually going quite well, in case you were wondering. Gib went up in the master bedroom yesterday (hah, master bedroom - in a very wee house, it feels odd to describe anything that way!) and today I believe it'll get a new door and a frame for the wardrobe. With any luck the gibstopper will have been in too, to get the walls plastered.
The wardrobe interior and doors are planned and barring a few minor details, should be ordered shortly too. Assuming all the framing and stopping happens this week, P and I (well, P, I am mostly useless) only need to sand and fill the roof, sand the window and then paint the bejesus out of everything and voila, we should be able to move back in.
So yes, it's going well. Mostly because we're paying a professional this time. We've streamlined to our DIY strengths - we can demolish, insulate and paint. With me mostly out of action between visits to family and pregnancy, this being P's busiest time of the year at work and the looming baby deadline, we've decided that it makes sense to pay to get the work done quickly. This does fill my wee nesty heart with horror though, thinking about the unpaid months of parental leave looming on the horizon. So much so that I'm squirrelling tiny amounts of cash away for a rainy day unbeknownst to P. So far, I've saved the princely sum of $350 which isn't going to go far but honestly, just the act of dropping $20 in a savings account from time to time relieves the hormone-induced need to be financially savvy. We're not going to be destitute by losing my income for a while by any means, but I don't know, I'm like a spare change hoarder.
Bedroom 2 is next in line, but isn't getting a new wardrobe. We're just going to insulate, re-line, decorate and replace the door on that bad boy, because we still aren't sure where the bathrooms will eventually end up. The bathroom or rooms may be on the other side of the wall to bedroom 2 and if we decide to have a wee ensuite, the space where a wardrobe might go may need to be a doorway. We thought about leaving the room entirely alone, but it's not properly insulated and eventually this baby will move in there. I think it preferable that the baby have a warm dry space to sleep in, I guess.
(PS Tuesday was a good day, Dad was well enough to go back on chemo. Wednesday, unfortunately, not so hot, Dad feeling terrible. Rollercoaster is the cliche, I believe.)
The wardrobe interior and doors are planned and barring a few minor details, should be ordered shortly too. Assuming all the framing and stopping happens this week, P and I (well, P, I am mostly useless) only need to sand and fill the roof, sand the window and then paint the bejesus out of everything and voila, we should be able to move back in.
So yes, it's going well. Mostly because we're paying a professional this time. We've streamlined to our DIY strengths - we can demolish, insulate and paint. With me mostly out of action between visits to family and pregnancy, this being P's busiest time of the year at work and the looming baby deadline, we've decided that it makes sense to pay to get the work done quickly. This does fill my wee nesty heart with horror though, thinking about the unpaid months of parental leave looming on the horizon. So much so that I'm squirrelling tiny amounts of cash away for a rainy day unbeknownst to P. So far, I've saved the princely sum of $350 which isn't going to go far but honestly, just the act of dropping $20 in a savings account from time to time relieves the hormone-induced need to be financially savvy. We're not going to be destitute by losing my income for a while by any means, but I don't know, I'm like a spare change hoarder.
Bedroom 2 is next in line, but isn't getting a new wardrobe. We're just going to insulate, re-line, decorate and replace the door on that bad boy, because we still aren't sure where the bathrooms will eventually end up. The bathroom or rooms may be on the other side of the wall to bedroom 2 and if we decide to have a wee ensuite, the space where a wardrobe might go may need to be a doorway. We thought about leaving the room entirely alone, but it's not properly insulated and eventually this baby will move in there. I think it preferable that the baby have a warm dry space to sleep in, I guess.
(PS Tuesday was a good day, Dad was well enough to go back on chemo. Wednesday, unfortunately, not so hot, Dad feeling terrible. Rollercoaster is the cliche, I believe.)
Monday, 16 February 2015
demolition
I have been titling posts things like 'life goes on' and 'right now', but speaking only of my father and my child. It's more than that, however, I'm not living in a vacuum of life and death. Between visits, we resume 'real' everyday life, and aside from when my tailbone aches from sitting too long, I can forget I'm pregnant for hours at a time.
Work continues apace on the house. The House Formerly Known as the Lavender Loveshack (now a lovely shade of greige, because we're boring) is still having the front door and balcony trim painted. We've destroyed the inside of the master bedroom - all the lining is gone, P is insulating in there and the electrician arrives Thursday to install new ceiling lights, new sockets and move some switches around. We're going to install a new door and a built-in wardrobe in the room, have it freshly lined and then I'm selecting yet another shade of grey paint. We're still debating retrofitting the windows with double glazing, waiting on a quote.
Once the master is completed, the guest bedroom is going to get the once over. This will become the nursery, I suppose, though not for a while. The baby will live with us for a bit, as advised by Plunket to mitigate the SIDS risk. We'll need to keep a spare bed in the nursery anyway, for P's Mum to visit from Germany and my parents to visit once the baby arrives. The nursery work will be pretty similar - insulation, new lights, new wardrobe, new linings, paint etc. I'm determined that we will have a warm home for the baby to live in when he or she arrives in mid-winter.
We nearly choked on our cookies receiving a quote for some new kitchen cabinetry 'necessary' to house a dishwasher, we were assured. In a kitchen that will be demolished at some point in the next 2-4 years, they thought we'd be happy to spend $6k, just for the cabinets. No new benchtop, no new fit out, just some new cabinets capable of housing a dishwasher. I'm pretty sure with a saw we can achieve largely the same result in the existing cabinets. Time for some more quotes, methinks. I'd like a dishwasher to make life a little more easy in a tiny kitchen once the baby arrives, but not at that kind of price before we've even bought the damn dishwasher.
I'm not much help with renovation, this time round. I picked up the demolished bits of lining (discovering newspapers from 1992 pasted across the walls to form a lovely backing for a bit of wall paper, over which plasterboard had been slapped in 1995) and carted them to the skip out the front. That lasted until the new neighbours started having a Saturday morning sesh on their deck. I don't really care if people want to smoke weed; I just really don't want my child in-utero to get second hand stoned. I call and arrange quotes etc. I cart drinks to P and hold the measuring tape, do the rest of the household chores like laundry. His wonderful father is going to lend a hand, and rope in my 16 year old step-brother in law as labourer.
Work continues apace on the house. The House Formerly Known as the Lavender Loveshack (now a lovely shade of greige, because we're boring) is still having the front door and balcony trim painted. We've destroyed the inside of the master bedroom - all the lining is gone, P is insulating in there and the electrician arrives Thursday to install new ceiling lights, new sockets and move some switches around. We're going to install a new door and a built-in wardrobe in the room, have it freshly lined and then I'm selecting yet another shade of grey paint. We're still debating retrofitting the windows with double glazing, waiting on a quote.
Once the master is completed, the guest bedroom is going to get the once over. This will become the nursery, I suppose, though not for a while. The baby will live with us for a bit, as advised by Plunket to mitigate the SIDS risk. We'll need to keep a spare bed in the nursery anyway, for P's Mum to visit from Germany and my parents to visit once the baby arrives. The nursery work will be pretty similar - insulation, new lights, new wardrobe, new linings, paint etc. I'm determined that we will have a warm home for the baby to live in when he or she arrives in mid-winter.
We nearly choked on our cookies receiving a quote for some new kitchen cabinetry 'necessary' to house a dishwasher, we were assured. In a kitchen that will be demolished at some point in the next 2-4 years, they thought we'd be happy to spend $6k, just for the cabinets. No new benchtop, no new fit out, just some new cabinets capable of housing a dishwasher. I'm pretty sure with a saw we can achieve largely the same result in the existing cabinets. Time for some more quotes, methinks. I'd like a dishwasher to make life a little more easy in a tiny kitchen once the baby arrives, but not at that kind of price before we've even bought the damn dishwasher.
I'm not much help with renovation, this time round. I picked up the demolished bits of lining (discovering newspapers from 1992 pasted across the walls to form a lovely backing for a bit of wall paper, over which plasterboard had been slapped in 1995) and carted them to the skip out the front. That lasted until the new neighbours started having a Saturday morning sesh on their deck. I don't really care if people want to smoke weed; I just really don't want my child in-utero to get second hand stoned. I call and arrange quotes etc. I cart drinks to P and hold the measuring tape, do the rest of the household chores like laundry. His wonderful father is going to lend a hand, and rope in my 16 year old step-brother in law as labourer.
Thursday, 11 December 2014
purple palace progress
The work on the Lavender Loveshack continues apace. There's been promises of being done with the painting by Christmas, but that's contingent on the weather continuing to play ball.
The builders will probably be glad to be done - P had a session pointing out a bunch of shonky repairs last weekend that remain uncorrected and I gave one of them a hell of a fright earlier this week. I don't usually get home until the builders have left, but I'd had a ride and got home not too far off 5.30. The front door was open and I could hear banging and sanding down the right hand side of the house. I was busting to use the loo, so I didn't walk round to say hi. I hustled into the bathroom and when I popped out, the builder's son was at the kitchen sink having a drink.* I swear his feet left the ground he got such a fright - he garbled an apology, I laughed and said of course he could help himself to water and he scurried outside to recover his composure, the poor thing.
With all the prep work and the patches of primed new weatherboards, the Palace is not very Purple any more. I'm nervous about the colours I've picked going up (what if I haaaaaate them? I'm not very good with this sort of thing). I'm also nervous about the expense, both of the current work and what we have planned next. We're going to re-line our bedroom and install a built-in wardrobe as the first task in the New Year, followed by a similar job on the spare bedroom (we can only do this one room at a time, you see, because we can only store one extra room's furniture at a time and still have a place to sleep that isn't the living room floor. I'm not opposed to the living room floor, I should point out, but P isn't too keen. He's got a point because the living room is very compact.)
We've acknowledged to ourselves that we can't afford to do the extension/kitchen/bathroom renovations as yet, so we'll stick to whacking in a dishwasher in those zones, once the bedrooms are done. Sweet, sweet dishwasher, I cannot wait to meet you.
There's also been talk of underhouse excavations and moving the laundry to a concreted space under there. I don't think there's any point until we do the major works at the back, and we'll still have to walk outdoors to put on a load of laundry, even if it's under the house. The washing machine presently lives in a utility shed in the backyard, which doesn't bother me nearly as much as I thought it would. We don't own a dryer so everything goes outdoors on the line anyway, we don't hear the noise, and the lack of overhead lighting restricts my laundry days to the weekend, so I don't have a horrible constant pile of folding to do.
So, we're going to be pouring some $$$ directly into the house, rather than continuing to shove it all onto the mortgage in the name of reducing the ridiculous mound of debt. I know that it technically increases our equity as well, but I have a cheap wee heart and it certainly doesn't reduce our interest payments!
That is all very domestic and dull, but it's what's going on just now.
*You might recall that our bathroom comes off the kitchen, part of a standard 50s lean-to addition to the old cottage. Just charming.
The builders will probably be glad to be done - P had a session pointing out a bunch of shonky repairs last weekend that remain uncorrected and I gave one of them a hell of a fright earlier this week. I don't usually get home until the builders have left, but I'd had a ride and got home not too far off 5.30. The front door was open and I could hear banging and sanding down the right hand side of the house. I was busting to use the loo, so I didn't walk round to say hi. I hustled into the bathroom and when I popped out, the builder's son was at the kitchen sink having a drink.* I swear his feet left the ground he got such a fright - he garbled an apology, I laughed and said of course he could help himself to water and he scurried outside to recover his composure, the poor thing.
With all the prep work and the patches of primed new weatherboards, the Palace is not very Purple any more. I'm nervous about the colours I've picked going up (what if I haaaaaate them? I'm not very good with this sort of thing). I'm also nervous about the expense, both of the current work and what we have planned next. We're going to re-line our bedroom and install a built-in wardrobe as the first task in the New Year, followed by a similar job on the spare bedroom (we can only do this one room at a time, you see, because we can only store one extra room's furniture at a time and still have a place to sleep that isn't the living room floor. I'm not opposed to the living room floor, I should point out, but P isn't too keen. He's got a point because the living room is very compact.)
We've acknowledged to ourselves that we can't afford to do the extension/kitchen/bathroom renovations as yet, so we'll stick to whacking in a dishwasher in those zones, once the bedrooms are done. Sweet, sweet dishwasher, I cannot wait to meet you.
There's also been talk of underhouse excavations and moving the laundry to a concreted space under there. I don't think there's any point until we do the major works at the back, and we'll still have to walk outdoors to put on a load of laundry, even if it's under the house. The washing machine presently lives in a utility shed in the backyard, which doesn't bother me nearly as much as I thought it would. We don't own a dryer so everything goes outdoors on the line anyway, we don't hear the noise, and the lack of overhead lighting restricts my laundry days to the weekend, so I don't have a horrible constant pile of folding to do.
So, we're going to be pouring some $$$ directly into the house, rather than continuing to shove it all onto the mortgage in the name of reducing the ridiculous mound of debt. I know that it technically increases our equity as well, but I have a cheap wee heart and it certainly doesn't reduce our interest payments!
That is all very domestic and dull, but it's what's going on just now.
*You might recall that our bathroom comes off the kitchen, part of a standard 50s lean-to addition to the old cottage. Just charming.
Thursday, 20 November 2014
house faffing
We're having a bunch of rotten weatherboards replaced on the Purple Palace's exterior, a move preparatory to having it painted. Purple no more. We'll likely go with a grey with white trim and a black-ish front door which is terribly boring and predictable, isn't it? Well, I am terribly boring and predictable and only occasionally am bothered by that fact. Still, there'll be a little purple nostaglia I think, when the first coat goes on, hiding the lavender glory (mauve magnificence?).
The builders are also replacing the small window in our bedroom and the front door, the current one having a crack so large I can see daylight through it. I think they've sourced replacements via TradeMe (NZ's answer to Ebay or Gumtree or something). A mysterious door is sitting outside the house and I hope they haven't spent too much on it because it's got ugly missized panels. We asked for a door with a window, to let light into the hall. It's all a bit mickey mouse (although, we are paying GST on this one at least, unlike another guy who quoted as a cash job and told me that you can roll a turd in glitter, but it's still a turd. Amazing.)
I went home from work sick yesterday and holed up in the spare bedroom. The builder has hired his son as a labourer over son's university holidays. They were blasting George FM and the son was educating his dad on the finer points regarding electronica. Dad didn't have much to contribute, but it seemed like good family bonding, to me. Tabitha sat on the bed with me, unperturbed by the noise. We had a nap. Good family bonding, too.
The builders are also replacing the small window in our bedroom and the front door, the current one having a crack so large I can see daylight through it. I think they've sourced replacements via TradeMe (NZ's answer to Ebay or Gumtree or something). A mysterious door is sitting outside the house and I hope they haven't spent too much on it because it's got ugly missized panels. We asked for a door with a window, to let light into the hall. It's all a bit mickey mouse (although, we are paying GST on this one at least, unlike another guy who quoted as a cash job and told me that you can roll a turd in glitter, but it's still a turd. Amazing.)
I went home from work sick yesterday and holed up in the spare bedroom. The builder has hired his son as a labourer over son's university holidays. They were blasting George FM and the son was educating his dad on the finer points regarding electronica. Dad didn't have much to contribute, but it seemed like good family bonding, to me. Tabitha sat on the bed with me, unperturbed by the noise. We had a nap. Good family bonding, too.
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
frazzled, variously
So work has seriously kicked off. I think it's that 'Christmas is coming' mentality setting in - oh fuck, say all of my clients, ever, at once, let's get that stuff sorted before the Christmas holidays! And I proceed to flip the flip out because I am incapable of any setting on my personal toaster between warm bread and JEEBERS TURN OFF THE SMOKE ALARMS.
(I wrote all of that, took a break, came back and whoa there Nelly I really do know how to torture a metaphor)
So yes, two months until Christmas. We are getting the Chrissy plans sorted. In case you care, we're off down the line for a wedding, a stay with my olds, a six hour car ride with my olds to get back to the 09 (emphasis added OMG), then spending Christmas eve with my wider maternal fam, Christmas day with a visit to P's dad and stepfam, the rest of the day with his Ma, brother and sister in law, then beach with friends for a week, whew. The shut down at our offices continues to the 12th, so there's talk of finding another beach after that with P's mum.
The late spring humidity has arrived with a vengeance and is doing a number on my coiffure. I think we all know how I feel about that. I'm taking it personally, is what I'm doing.
Also, my eyes are watering following quotes on replacing those rotten weatherboards. Turns out one side of the house is, to put it poetically, totally rooted. I think we knew that in our hearts but were practicing turning a blind eye. Home ownership and responsibility and whatnot, far out.
(I wrote all of that, took a break, came back and whoa there Nelly I really do know how to torture a metaphor)
So yes, two months until Christmas. We are getting the Chrissy plans sorted. In case you care, we're off down the line for a wedding, a stay with my olds, a six hour car ride with my olds to get back to the 09 (emphasis added OMG), then spending Christmas eve with my wider maternal fam, Christmas day with a visit to P's dad and stepfam, the rest of the day with his Ma, brother and sister in law, then beach with friends for a week, whew. The shut down at our offices continues to the 12th, so there's talk of finding another beach after that with P's mum.
The late spring humidity has arrived with a vengeance and is doing a number on my coiffure. I think we all know how I feel about that. I'm taking it personally, is what I'm doing.
Also, my eyes are watering following quotes on replacing those rotten weatherboards. Turns out one side of the house is, to put it poetically, totally rooted. I think we knew that in our hearts but were practicing turning a blind eye. Home ownership and responsibility and whatnot, far out.
Monday, 13 October 2014
octoberish
Had the first casual wine on the back deck of the season, this weekend gone. It was a chardonnay I'd popped in the fridge in anticipation, waking on Saturday morning to a clear sky. Two friends visited to check out an open home over the back fence* and we ruminated over the marketing material over a glass or two of wine. I shared sunscreen with my visitors. Towels were drying on the washing line, flapping in a gentle breeze. Felt properly summerish and not a moment before time.
P had disappeared for the weekend on his annual migration to the river to 'catch fish' (for which, read: commune with nature in the company of male relations). He did manage to bring home a fat trout so I think he's assuaged the hunter-gatherer urges for another few months. Fishing has been a hot topic in our household, of late. He's organised a charter to catch kingfish or hapuka over the Christmas holidays, as well as a snapper expedition with work. I will gladly eat the spoils.
I'm planning the next set of work on the house. I booked a plumber to add some exterior taps (nothing's gonna die on my watch, this year! Filling the watering can in the bathtub got a bit tedious, after a while. No doubt I've just jinxed the summer into being wet, wet, wet.) I've also planned a quick refresh of the kitchen window. But the real buzz is getting a builder in to replace weatherboards in anticipation of an exterior paint job. We're going to leave that to the professionals, I think, but I'll find it satisfying nonetheless.
*It would be so nice if they bought the place but the eau-de-dog permeating the front rooms was powerful. I know it can be overcome but boy, it affects your first impression!
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| SUNDAY AFTERNOON GROUP SNOOZE |
P had disappeared for the weekend on his annual migration to the river to 'catch fish' (for which, read: commune with nature in the company of male relations). He did manage to bring home a fat trout so I think he's assuaged the hunter-gatherer urges for another few months. Fishing has been a hot topic in our household, of late. He's organised a charter to catch kingfish or hapuka over the Christmas holidays, as well as a snapper expedition with work. I will gladly eat the spoils.
I'm planning the next set of work on the house. I booked a plumber to add some exterior taps (nothing's gonna die on my watch, this year! Filling the watering can in the bathtub got a bit tedious, after a while. No doubt I've just jinxed the summer into being wet, wet, wet.) I've also planned a quick refresh of the kitchen window. But the real buzz is getting a builder in to replace weatherboards in anticipation of an exterior paint job. We're going to leave that to the professionals, I think, but I'll find it satisfying nonetheless.
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| OH HEY LOOK HERE IS MY NEW LIGHT FIXTURE IN THE DINING ROOM. SEE ALSO: CEILING OF SANDING DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM |
*It would be so nice if they bought the place but the eau-de-dog permeating the front rooms was powerful. I know it can be overcome but boy, it affects your first impression!
Monday, 15 September 2014
there is paint in my hairline, still
We have finally finished the dining room. Well, when I say finished, I mean, we've moved the dining table back in and all the major works are done, as of Sunday evening. We are still fighting about pendant lights and sideboards and the best arrangement of art and shelves and whatnot. But, I ate a meal at the table last night for the first time in a long time and we congratulated ourselves mightily. One room: took us thirteen and a half months to start, one month and three days to finish. At this rate, our house will be renovated some time this century!
I must say, the painting part of the process was lengthy but fundamentally enjoyable for me, even though I got up and down the ladder approx. eleventy million times and I am really not that good a painter. Can't pinpoint exactly why I like it but there you go. Sanding: hate. Filling: eh. Being P's assistant to hold this or that or the other: not bad for me, but I suspect painful for P, given my propensity to inform him of a better way to do things (clearly!). Also, who knew that renovating involved such endless tidying and cleaning? I felt like I spent a good chunk of the time shuffling sandpaper and tools and ladders from one place to another, readjusting drop cloths, vacuuming, sweeping, picking up nails, cleaning brushes and rollers etc etc. Safe to say I wasn't a big fan of that cleaning biz either.
I will take a picture for you blog, one of these days! I might even have people over to eat in my room! My god, the options are endless!
Busy-ish at work too, the usual. Spent two days in Wellington last week and am off to Christchurch again tomorrow. The places I've travelled for work have are not what you might call exotic. I could get behind a conference in the Seychelles or even Rarotonga (you know, if it has to be within a four hour flight) but as much as I like Wellington, it's not quite as glam as, say, Monaco. Ah well, at least with the trip to Christchurch I should get home in time to stand in the doorway and admire my new room before bed. Can't say that for Prague.
I must say, the painting part of the process was lengthy but fundamentally enjoyable for me, even though I got up and down the ladder approx. eleventy million times and I am really not that good a painter. Can't pinpoint exactly why I like it but there you go. Sanding: hate. Filling: eh. Being P's assistant to hold this or that or the other: not bad for me, but I suspect painful for P, given my propensity to inform him of a better way to do things (clearly!). Also, who knew that renovating involved such endless tidying and cleaning? I felt like I spent a good chunk of the time shuffling sandpaper and tools and ladders from one place to another, readjusting drop cloths, vacuuming, sweeping, picking up nails, cleaning brushes and rollers etc etc. Safe to say I wasn't a big fan of that cleaning biz either.
I will take a picture for you blog, one of these days! I might even have people over to eat in my room! My god, the options are endless!
Busy-ish at work too, the usual. Spent two days in Wellington last week and am off to Christchurch again tomorrow. The places I've travelled for work have are not what you might call exotic. I could get behind a conference in the Seychelles or even Rarotonga (you know, if it has to be within a four hour flight) but as much as I like Wellington, it's not quite as glam as, say, Monaco. Ah well, at least with the trip to Christchurch I should get home in time to stand in the doorway and admire my new room before bed. Can't say that for Prague.
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
diy
I posted something terribly depressing, then I fled the scene of the crime for a solid two weeks. Well done, self, you're a real peach.
The break was prompted by my holiday from work...AKA the week in which I learned my deficiencies in the home improvement realm!
Here's how it actually went:
1) I paint swatches all over the dining room wall and melt down about the difference between Quarter Surrender and One Eighth Surrender, because it's clearly a big deal. Much time spent staring at walls in different lights.
2) We have a cup of tea.
3) P starts demolishing the linings. It transpires they're hard board not gib (plasterboard) and there's a fuckload (official term) of wood behind them for bracing. There is a technical term for this but it escapes me, or perhaps I never had it.
4) I cart loads of rubbish to our bin.
5) I cart loads of rubbish to the bin of the empty house next door, looking around to see if anyone's busting me.
6) More tea.
7) Sparky comes to fix the outlets in the dining room and add a heated towel rail to the bathroom. HOLY SMOKES a heated towel rail is a super luxury item! I mean, my towel is always dry now! AMAZING. Yes, I have had an HTR (we're on close terms now) in my life previously but seriously, it's a minor improvement to an incredibly shabby bathroom and it makes me beyond happy.
8) Tea while watching electrician and his apprentice (who seemed about 17 and named Silkie. 'Silk, get under the house.' 'Silk, get in the roof.' 'Silk, have you fixed that yet?' Endlessly entertaining).
9) Spend HOURS pulling superfluous nails out of the bracing. HOURS.
10) Get dressed up in a disposable overall (something I hope never to do again) to install insulation. Install insulation and only breathe a bit of fibreglass in the process. Feel itchy.
11) More nail pulling. It turns out they used approximately a million tacks to secure the hard wood lining, none of which came out when we ripped off the lining.
12) Freak out when P uses the drop saw. Convinced he will lose a finger, so instead of sensibly supervising with my finger on the dial to call 111, I go outside to paint a window hoping I'll somehow avoid the emergency.
13) P still intact, hammers things.
14) Gib fixer and plasterer arrives. Takes ages to dry. Attempt poorly planned pathway around side of house as landscaping project in interim. Present status: muddy.
15) Sanding stuff. Architraves, ceiling. (OMG sanding the ceiling).
16) Select paint. Resene Quarter Surrender with white for ceilings, archs, skirts and scotia. USe Dad's store card for discount and P nearly gives the game away asking me how I got it in front of the clerk. Immediately have regret about colour choice.
Aaaaand that's about as far as we got. I didn't bother writing it in, but we made approximately 50 trips to Mitre 10, Placemakers, some fancy Villa timber store down the road, the booze store, the paint store and the supermarket during that time. OMG, I bought building paper from Mitre 10 and nails and shit, all by myself. They let me buy it all without some kind of licence. (Not so much feminism's win as it is capitalism's, I expect).
The break was prompted by my holiday from work...AKA the week in which I learned my deficiencies in the home improvement realm!
Here's how it actually went:
1) I paint swatches all over the dining room wall and melt down about the difference between Quarter Surrender and One Eighth Surrender, because it's clearly a big deal. Much time spent staring at walls in different lights.
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| INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEO/NAP TIME. THIS IS ACTUALLY HOW AMATEUR WE ARE. |
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| [50 SHADES OF GREY JOKE HERE] |
3) P starts demolishing the linings. It transpires they're hard board not gib (plasterboard) and there's a fuckload (official term) of wood behind them for bracing. There is a technical term for this but it escapes me, or perhaps I never had it.
4) I cart loads of rubbish to our bin.
5) I cart loads of rubbish to the bin of the empty house next door, looking around to see if anyone's busting me.
6) More tea.
7) Sparky comes to fix the outlets in the dining room and add a heated towel rail to the bathroom. HOLY SMOKES a heated towel rail is a super luxury item! I mean, my towel is always dry now! AMAZING. Yes, I have had an HTR (we're on close terms now) in my life previously but seriously, it's a minor improvement to an incredibly shabby bathroom and it makes me beyond happy.
8) Tea while watching electrician and his apprentice (who seemed about 17 and named Silkie. 'Silk, get under the house.' 'Silk, get in the roof.' 'Silk, have you fixed that yet?' Endlessly entertaining).
9) Spend HOURS pulling superfluous nails out of the bracing. HOURS.
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| SOMEWHERE IN ALL OF THIS WE WENT TO WAIHEKE ISLAND FOR A LONG LUNCH BECAUSE HOLIDAY. |
10) Get dressed up in a disposable overall (something I hope never to do again) to install insulation. Install insulation and only breathe a bit of fibreglass in the process. Feel itchy.
11) More nail pulling. It turns out they used approximately a million tacks to secure the hard wood lining, none of which came out when we ripped off the lining.
12) Freak out when P uses the drop saw. Convinced he will lose a finger, so instead of sensibly supervising with my finger on the dial to call 111, I go outside to paint a window hoping I'll somehow avoid the emergency.
13) P still intact, hammers things.
14) Gib fixer and plasterer arrives. Takes ages to dry. Attempt poorly planned pathway around side of house as landscaping project in interim. Present status: muddy.
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| THIS WINS THE PRIZE FOR MOST BORING PHOTO OF ALL TIME BUT WE HAVE WALLS! ALSO, A SHIT VIEW FROM THIS ROOM. |
15) Sanding stuff. Architraves, ceiling. (OMG sanding the ceiling).
16) Select paint. Resene Quarter Surrender with white for ceilings, archs, skirts and scotia. USe Dad's store card for discount and P nearly gives the game away asking me how I got it in front of the clerk. Immediately have regret about colour choice.
Aaaaand that's about as far as we got. I didn't bother writing it in, but we made approximately 50 trips to Mitre 10, Placemakers, some fancy Villa timber store down the road, the booze store, the paint store and the supermarket during that time. OMG, I bought building paper from Mitre 10 and nails and shit, all by myself. They let me buy it all without some kind of licence. (Not so much feminism's win as it is capitalism's, I expect).
Wednesday, 23 July 2014
that's a big assumption
Assuming everything goes to plan, P and I are taking a week off in August.
We have needed to have something to look forward, so we tentatively locked in some leave a couple of months ago. We're not going anywhere because we're trying to save, though I toyed with the idea of booking a getaway to Milford Sound and Queenstown. Instead,we're going to engage in a spot of light demolition at Chez Mauve.
This has (expensive) disaster written all over it. The plan:
- Remove all the internal linings from the spare bedroom.
- Insulate the walls.
- Replace linings with fresh gib.
- Get the electrician in to move outlets, and the plasterer to finish the linings.
- Sand, including window and door frames.
- Paint.
- Replace manky door, or at least give the current door a handle.*
*What, all your doors come with a handle as standard? The Purple Palace really is, um, unusual.
What is likely to happen:
- Have fight over logistics while moving all furniture out of spare bedroom.
- Rip down linings and create hellish mess.
- Discover serious issues with timber frames which no doubt means whole house is screwed.
- Call builder, discover no one can help for at least six months.
- Leave the rest of it forever.
I can conjure at least six different permutations of the 'What is Likely to Happen' list. Most of which end with all the bedroom stuff living in the dining room while the bedroom is unfinished for months, nay, years. I am cursing our DIY efforts, no doubt, with my predictions of dire consequences. But I know my limitations and while I'm not sure of P's, I'm nervous.
So, in order that the holiday feels, well, holiday-ish, I booked a long lunch for us the first weekend we're off. Think of it as a marital counselling via pasta and wine before the arguments actually occur. Aren't I optimistic?!*
*Please note the move away from yell-y caps to an angular italicisation for emphasis. I am attempting to be less...strident...in my piffling. I know, not much of an improvement. Still a great deal of overuse of the exclamation mark, to say nothing of the other egregious grammatical offences.
We have needed to have something to look forward, so we tentatively locked in some leave a couple of months ago. We're not going anywhere because we're trying to save, though I toyed with the idea of booking a getaway to Milford Sound and Queenstown. Instead,we're going to engage in a spot of light demolition at Chez Mauve.
This has (expensive) disaster written all over it. The plan:
- Remove all the internal linings from the spare bedroom.
- Insulate the walls.
- Replace linings with fresh gib.
- Get the electrician in to move outlets, and the plasterer to finish the linings.
- Sand, including window and door frames.
- Paint.
- Replace manky door, or at least give the current door a handle.*
*What, all your doors come with a handle as standard? The Purple Palace really is, um, unusual.
What is likely to happen:
- Have fight over logistics while moving all furniture out of spare bedroom.
- Rip down linings and create hellish mess.
- Discover serious issues with timber frames which no doubt means whole house is screwed.
- Call builder, discover no one can help for at least six months.
- Leave the rest of it forever.
I can conjure at least six different permutations of the 'What is Likely to Happen' list. Most of which end with all the bedroom stuff living in the dining room while the bedroom is unfinished for months, nay, years. I am cursing our DIY efforts, no doubt, with my predictions of dire consequences. But I know my limitations and while I'm not sure of P's, I'm nervous.
So, in order that the holiday feels, well, holiday-ish, I booked a long lunch for us the first weekend we're off. Think of it as a marital counselling via pasta and wine before the arguments actually occur. Aren't I optimistic?!*
*Please note the move away from yell-y caps to an angular italicisation for emphasis. I am attempting to be less...strident...in my piffling. I know, not much of an improvement. Still a great deal of overuse of the exclamation mark, to say nothing of the other egregious grammatical offences.
Monday, 12 May 2014
home
The concept of the childhood family home eludes me; we moved roughly once every five years. I only remember being upset about this once, when I was 10 or 11. K and I ripped down the 'for sale' sign at the end of the driveway and tossed it into an adjoining paddock. I don't know that we'd thought it through (removing the sign was hardly overthrowing an entire marketing campaign) and I don't recall how Dad discovered we'd done it, but I do remember the sinking feeling that the move was written on wall, when Dad was chewing us out after the fact. I gave up the rebellion pretty quickly and didn't look back as we left for the last time.
It didn't upset me when Mum and Dad largely converted my bedroom into a spare room within the first eight weeks after I left for university. I've always found the concept of a child's bedroom preserved in perpetuity somewhat creepy, perhaps a little shrine-like.
When Mum and Dad sold the house they'd built and we lived in for the longest stretch of my youth (I was there for seven years, they sold it after nine years, after both K and I left home), I didn't feel sad either. They were moving somewhere they wanted to be, I didn't live there any more. I almost wanted to divorce myself from the place; I had started feeling uncomfortable visiting the haunts of my high school years when I returned on university holidays. I was reinventing friendships and tossing out much of who I had been in high school, trying an adult persona on for size. I think I felt guilty when I visited, I was (and am) bad at maintaining friendships over distance and had moved on when I left.
As an adult, the longest I've lived anywhere was three and a half years in a tiny apartment in Auckland. I couldn't wait to get out of there; I don't miss it.
I've always assigned more meaning to objects, I think. Relics of my childhood such as exercise books, ribbons and pictures hold more nostalgia for me. I still think of the feijoa tree outside my bedroom window ages 5 through 10; I'd sneak out the window to gorge when I'd been banished to my room for misbehaviour. Remembrance is triggered by eating a feijoa, not by visiting the place.
Which is why it feels odd that suddenly, less than a year after I've moved in, I feel emotionally tied to our new place. It's the house and land itself that I'm growing to love. I hear the tui in the tree across the road and know I'm home. I hear the gate swing and curse it sticking in wet weather. That's home too. I ripped creeper out of the lovely half grown chuckleberry trees on the fenceline and cursed when I snagged and broke a branch. Who knew that ownership was such a different beast? Perhaps I'm getting more sentimental in my old age.
It didn't upset me when Mum and Dad largely converted my bedroom into a spare room within the first eight weeks after I left for university. I've always found the concept of a child's bedroom preserved in perpetuity somewhat creepy, perhaps a little shrine-like.
When Mum and Dad sold the house they'd built and we lived in for the longest stretch of my youth (I was there for seven years, they sold it after nine years, after both K and I left home), I didn't feel sad either. They were moving somewhere they wanted to be, I didn't live there any more. I almost wanted to divorce myself from the place; I had started feeling uncomfortable visiting the haunts of my high school years when I returned on university holidays. I was reinventing friendships and tossing out much of who I had been in high school, trying an adult persona on for size. I think I felt guilty when I visited, I was (and am) bad at maintaining friendships over distance and had moved on when I left.
As an adult, the longest I've lived anywhere was three and a half years in a tiny apartment in Auckland. I couldn't wait to get out of there; I don't miss it.
I've always assigned more meaning to objects, I think. Relics of my childhood such as exercise books, ribbons and pictures hold more nostalgia for me. I still think of the feijoa tree outside my bedroom window ages 5 through 10; I'd sneak out the window to gorge when I'd been banished to my room for misbehaviour. Remembrance is triggered by eating a feijoa, not by visiting the place.
Which is why it feels odd that suddenly, less than a year after I've moved in, I feel emotionally tied to our new place. It's the house and land itself that I'm growing to love. I hear the tui in the tree across the road and know I'm home. I hear the gate swing and curse it sticking in wet weather. That's home too. I ripped creeper out of the lovely half grown chuckleberry trees on the fenceline and cursed when I snagged and broke a branch. Who knew that ownership was such a different beast? Perhaps I'm getting more sentimental in my old age.
Sunday, 2 March 2014
onward, march
You know the drill. As soon as I get a whiff of the change of season, I feel the need to report on my blog. This is compelling diarising, my friends. Sadly, I've got no seasonal decor / seasonal decor picture for you (cracking out a string of lights at Christmas time is about the extent of it), so you'll just have to imagine this morning's damp, chill moments; the rain that's misting past my window and the three rainbows I saw before 9am.
Last night was the second birthday party of our youngest nephew. Suddenly, he's a little boy. You can still see the infant chub on his arms (almost ringlet-y at the wrists), but he's solidified and no longer wobbles when turning corners. I wistfully remarked on the passage of time to his mother who looked a little relieved yet surprised that infancy was over. The days are long but the years are short, I believe.
You may recall he and his family spent some time with us last year when renovating their house. Last night's visit to their lovely home made me sigh wistfully for kitchen space and a dishwasher, for open plan living. I can wait, though. We have to wait in all honesty; the lavender loveshack cleaned us out financially last year; it'll be a while before we've sunk enough equity into it to justify spending horrendous amounts on a do-up. I spent quite a few minutes this morning hovering in my online banking account, counting pennies and considering interest rates and consigning dreams of a wobble-free loo to a hazy future.
Well yes, the wedding was just lovely. On the scale of emosh, I hit 'slight dampness around the eyes', which I think is just the right amount for happy celebrations.
Last night was the second birthday party of our youngest nephew. Suddenly, he's a little boy. You can still see the infant chub on his arms (almost ringlet-y at the wrists), but he's solidified and no longer wobbles when turning corners. I wistfully remarked on the passage of time to his mother who looked a little relieved yet surprised that infancy was over. The days are long but the years are short, I believe.
You may recall he and his family spent some time with us last year when renovating their house. Last night's visit to their lovely home made me sigh wistfully for kitchen space and a dishwasher, for open plan living. I can wait, though. We have to wait in all honesty; the lavender loveshack cleaned us out financially last year; it'll be a while before we've sunk enough equity into it to justify spending horrendous amounts on a do-up. I spent quite a few minutes this morning hovering in my online banking account, counting pennies and considering interest rates and consigning dreams of a wobble-free loo to a hazy future.
Well yes, the wedding was just lovely. On the scale of emosh, I hit 'slight dampness around the eyes', which I think is just the right amount for happy celebrations.
Thursday, 27 February 2014
property matters
I think we're back on an even keel now. I enjoyed P's company yesterday on the bus over to his dad's house so I guess he can't be made of pure evil.
OK, so. Say you have a cross-leased home. You own 1/4 share of X metres squared with four houses on it; say, Numbers 2 through 5. You live in Number 4. None of the houses have off street parking. Number 1, not on the cross lease, is a home and therapy business, though you've never seen anyone go there for treatment, much less understood what sort of therapy it is doling out. Number 2, probably the nicest of the bunch, is for sale. You get a phone call from a prospective purchaser. She:
- wants to use Number 2 as an office for her business;
- has three or four staff;
- will need resource consent from the council to do this and thinks that the council will only by concerned about noise and traffic;
- thinks there is good parking on a side street;
- considers her business won't generate noise;
- has been told by other residential neighbours to her business in its current location that they appreciate having someone home all day;
- wants to sound you out about whether you'd be prepared to consent to vary the terms of the cross lease to allow No 2 to be used in this way.
Do you agree to the usage of the property in this way? My instinct is no; but I don't want to be unreasonable (slash can't be unreasonable by the terms of our cross lease). I mean, it's really just a preference on my part for nice, residential neighbours, and a desire that our whole street doesn't become marginalised / workplacified, which is kind of a worry given it's proximity to the city. Ill defined complaints, really. It might be the time to agree to subdivide?
Also, do you think I've done a terrible job of seeking to anonymise this information? Why yes, so do I!
And yes, I think it's probably apparent that my daytime lawyering has little if anything to do with matters property. I received my worst ever grade in property law while an undergraduate; I'm pretty sure I erased what little knowledge I had of it shortly after gaining admission to the bar and would NEVER advise anyone else on property issues, FYI. In case you were wondering what sort of hopeless solicitor asks the internet questions about her real estate issues - I'm a different sort of hopeless lawyer. (I JEST. I AM PERFECTLY COMPETENT. MOSTLY) (Never ask me about trusts. Just, don't. Wills either. In fact, just assume I'm not able to advise you about anything, ever, including your haircut. Hopeless is the name of the blog, after all)
OK, so. Say you have a cross-leased home. You own 1/4 share of X metres squared with four houses on it; say, Numbers 2 through 5. You live in Number 4. None of the houses have off street parking. Number 1, not on the cross lease, is a home and therapy business, though you've never seen anyone go there for treatment, much less understood what sort of therapy it is doling out. Number 2, probably the nicest of the bunch, is for sale. You get a phone call from a prospective purchaser. She:
- wants to use Number 2 as an office for her business;
- has three or four staff;
- will need resource consent from the council to do this and thinks that the council will only by concerned about noise and traffic;
- thinks there is good parking on a side street;
- considers her business won't generate noise;
- has been told by other residential neighbours to her business in its current location that they appreciate having someone home all day;
- wants to sound you out about whether you'd be prepared to consent to vary the terms of the cross lease to allow No 2 to be used in this way.
Do you agree to the usage of the property in this way? My instinct is no; but I don't want to be unreasonable (slash can't be unreasonable by the terms of our cross lease). I mean, it's really just a preference on my part for nice, residential neighbours, and a desire that our whole street doesn't become marginalised / workplacified, which is kind of a worry given it's proximity to the city. Ill defined complaints, really. It might be the time to agree to subdivide?
Also, do you think I've done a terrible job of seeking to anonymise this information? Why yes, so do I!
And yes, I think it's probably apparent that my daytime lawyering has little if anything to do with matters property. I received my worst ever grade in property law while an undergraduate; I'm pretty sure I erased what little knowledge I had of it shortly after gaining admission to the bar and would NEVER advise anyone else on property issues, FYI. In case you were wondering what sort of hopeless solicitor asks the internet questions about her real estate issues - I'm a different sort of hopeless lawyer. (I JEST. I AM PERFECTLY COMPETENT. MOSTLY) (Never ask me about trusts. Just, don't. Wills either. In fact, just assume I'm not able to advise you about anything, ever, including your haircut. Hopeless is the name of the blog, after all)
Monday, 28 October 2013
aka oscar?
Oh hi blog. How are you? I'd like to say I've been off doing all manner of interesting and exciting things, but truth of the matter is I've:
- been sanding windows; and
- been avoiding sanding windows.
It's all very dull. On the plus side, my finger pads now feel rough enough to do all the sanding for me. Who needs sandpaper when the mere action of running a finger lovingly down my husband's five day old stubble causes HIM to yelp? I attempted to remedy the situation by the regular application of moisturiser. This was all going swimmingly UNTIL...I realised I'd been applying the Holiday Skin fake tan tinted moisturiser compulsively and my palms were stained a lovely shade of burnished orange. Just charming. I have now lost a further 20 layers of skin trying to re-achieve a natural color on my digits, with only slight success. I look like I've been prepped with iodine for a serious bout of hand surgery, only without the added benefit of actually getting rid of that weird lump on the back of my hand.
I have also been looking at paint samples this weekend. The Lavender Love Nest (Purple Palace?) is having a make-over this summer and it's kind of like she's entered her golden years: we're going with something sensible. We think. Shade of grey, most likely. Har har, I said, when the inevitable 50 Shades joke was made about the test patch situation out the back. It's possible I no longer have a sense of humour about it, though. I found myself squinting at the patches and at the colour swatches muttering about "blue tones" and "half Rakaia, no, quarter?" and seriously debating the merits of different shades of white for the accent. I think I need a hobby. I shall be rainbow-arraying my skeins of yarn until further notice, OK?
So, yes, home improvement proceeds slowly at the Mauve Manner. It is quite clear as I type this that I'm in a terrible mood - I tried to think of something else that stood out from the long holiday weekend and the first thing that sprang to mind was the time I busted that cat scratching up my radishes. I gave the neighbouring dogs a run for their money in the feline-terrorising stakes, I can tell you. I'm so....curmudgeonly (ish?) at the moment. I suppose that's what you get at the grand old age of one-and-thirty (!)
I'll cut my losses and end this here given how sneery I'm being - nicer, positive A next time, I promise!
- been sanding windows; and
- been avoiding sanding windows.
It's all very dull. On the plus side, my finger pads now feel rough enough to do all the sanding for me. Who needs sandpaper when the mere action of running a finger lovingly down my husband's five day old stubble causes HIM to yelp? I attempted to remedy the situation by the regular application of moisturiser. This was all going swimmingly UNTIL...I realised I'd been applying the Holiday Skin fake tan tinted moisturiser compulsively and my palms were stained a lovely shade of burnished orange. Just charming. I have now lost a further 20 layers of skin trying to re-achieve a natural color on my digits, with only slight success. I look like I've been prepped with iodine for a serious bout of hand surgery, only without the added benefit of actually getting rid of that weird lump on the back of my hand.
I have also been looking at paint samples this weekend. The Lavender Love Nest (Purple Palace?) is having a make-over this summer and it's kind of like she's entered her golden years: we're going with something sensible. We think. Shade of grey, most likely. Har har, I said, when the inevitable 50 Shades joke was made about the test patch situation out the back. It's possible I no longer have a sense of humour about it, though. I found myself squinting at the patches and at the colour swatches muttering about "blue tones" and "half Rakaia, no, quarter?" and seriously debating the merits of different shades of white for the accent. I think I need a hobby. I shall be rainbow-arraying my skeins of yarn until further notice, OK?
So, yes, home improvement proceeds slowly at the Mauve Manner. It is quite clear as I type this that I'm in a terrible mood - I tried to think of something else that stood out from the long holiday weekend and the first thing that sprang to mind was the time I busted that cat scratching up my radishes. I gave the neighbouring dogs a run for their money in the feline-terrorising stakes, I can tell you. I'm so....curmudgeonly (ish?) at the moment. I suppose that's what you get at the grand old age of one-and-thirty (!)
I'll cut my losses and end this here given how sneery I'm being - nicer, positive A next time, I promise!
Wednesday, 16 October 2013
plagiarised bits
You know, I find a new good blog and I'm immediately composing posts in my head completely bastardizing the author's voice. I think it's a hang up from reading Bridget Jones, oh about 50 years ago, and writing forevermorethereafter: 'v. good'. (Helen Fielding may not have been the first person to abbreviate 'very' to 'v.' but god, she did it so effectively. Almost all of my most 'London' moments while living there were based on feeling like I was living just like Bridget - WWBD, if you will. Except with less crotch-cam-on-a-fireman's-pole.)
Today's find was Bend it Like Becker who made me giggle. Rigging up a system to get the rubbish into the bin from the second storey deck to avoid having to go downstairs is actually frigging genius but having the commitment to buy carabiners to achieve said goal? I've got nothing but snorts and applause. Brilliant. I immediately wanted to rip her off which must be the highest accolade I've got in my (admittedly limited) Positive Praise Bank. (What I've got stored in my Disdain and Contempt Bank is extensive. I don't even save it for special, I apply it liberally). Anyway, Sarah has a thingo she calls 'blurbs' which appears to be a conglomeration post of bits and pieces and I'm totally ripping that off today. Credit where credit's due and all (um, assuming this counts as credit?)
So, anyway. We're having a house warming this weekend. (OF COURSE you're all invited, internet stalkers! Um, your invitations are in the mail! Yes, that's it!) P has purchased about half a beast (half a lamb anyway) to feed guests with and I am in that stage of concern that reads: 'well we're going to look ridiculous when only three people turn up and we've catered for the population of a medium sized town'. Those three people aren't even a given - my Mum's not in town. But look on the bright side: when have I ever been upset about eating leftovers for a solid week?! NEVER. NOT EVER. I cry when the Christmas ham runs out four weeks after the event.
Also, I am going to see Beyonce in concert (as opposed to over tea, you know) tomorrow with a veritable gaggle of women. One, a high school teacher, has already emailed to express concern about the reaction of a class of 15 year old girls - 'YOU listen to Beyonce?!' 'Destiny's WHO?!'. Look, I remember 2000 clearly when Say My Name was the only thing we'd play on the high school common room stereo (which if I recall rightly was so wrecked it had to be sat on the foam cushions from the broken-ass common room couch in order to work). I'm now however quite concerned that I will be the oldest, saddest woman at this concert because I've already ditched the idea of wearing heels in order to be more comfortable and I'm planning how to get home after. Shit.
On the plus side, at least we're having dinner first at quite a nice restaurant so I'm guessing it won't be like the heady days of the 2007 JT concert where we destroyed ourselves on Lindauer Fraise (exactly as classy as it sounds. EXACTLY).
Today's find was Bend it Like Becker who made me giggle. Rigging up a system to get the rubbish into the bin from the second storey deck to avoid having to go downstairs is actually frigging genius but having the commitment to buy carabiners to achieve said goal? I've got nothing but snorts and applause. Brilliant. I immediately wanted to rip her off which must be the highest accolade I've got in my (admittedly limited) Positive Praise Bank. (What I've got stored in my Disdain and Contempt Bank is extensive. I don't even save it for special, I apply it liberally). Anyway, Sarah has a thingo she calls 'blurbs' which appears to be a conglomeration post of bits and pieces and I'm totally ripping that off today. Credit where credit's due and all (um, assuming this counts as credit?)
So, anyway. We're having a house warming this weekend. (OF COURSE you're all invited, internet stalkers! Um, your invitations are in the mail! Yes, that's it!) P has purchased about half a beast (half a lamb anyway) to feed guests with and I am in that stage of concern that reads: 'well we're going to look ridiculous when only three people turn up and we've catered for the population of a medium sized town'. Those three people aren't even a given - my Mum's not in town. But look on the bright side: when have I ever been upset about eating leftovers for a solid week?! NEVER. NOT EVER. I cry when the Christmas ham runs out four weeks after the event.
Also, I am going to see Beyonce in concert (as opposed to over tea, you know) tomorrow with a veritable gaggle of women. One, a high school teacher, has already emailed to express concern about the reaction of a class of 15 year old girls - 'YOU listen to Beyonce?!' 'Destiny's WHO?!'. Look, I remember 2000 clearly when Say My Name was the only thing we'd play on the high school common room stereo (which if I recall rightly was so wrecked it had to be sat on the foam cushions from the broken-ass common room couch in order to work). I'm now however quite concerned that I will be the oldest, saddest woman at this concert because I've already ditched the idea of wearing heels in order to be more comfortable and I'm planning how to get home after. Shit.
On the plus side, at least we're having dinner first at quite a nice restaurant so I'm guessing it won't be like the heady days of the 2007 JT concert where we destroyed ourselves on Lindauer Fraise (exactly as classy as it sounds. EXACTLY).
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
malt biscuits and mow-lawning
I just spread butter on a malt biscuit, and smooshed another one on top. There was fruit in the bowl next to the bikkies, but I ignored it. God that's gross.
Aaaaaaaaaaanyway. I mowed the lawns this weekend. I even strimmed the edges and tried (for the love of god, tried) to mow in straight lines. This was momentous because thus far in my life my lawn mowing activity has consisted of:
- watching my mother or father mow the lawn
- wathing P mow the lawn
- letting my horse mow the lawn
You will note that none of the above involved me handling a lawnmower. My mother (and by extension my father) didn't trust me with a mower (or in the kitchen, in the tool shed, with a saw etc etc - with good reason - I am the girl who just today managed to slice her little finger on the edge of a the clip from a manila folder, for crying out loud). It wasn't only that I was useless and couldn't be trusted not to damage myself, but Mum really has a thing for a properly mown lawn, with the edges done right and all in straight lines. I am not very good at straight lines.
I usually watch P mow the lawns because, well, is there anything better than sitting on your deck in late afternoon sunlight watching your husband be all domesticated and vaguely sweaty? I think not.
And Bert, well, he was GOOD at keeping the grass down. I just had to scoop the poop afterwards.
So, yes, I did it myself this weekend (I had P trapped inside slaving over a hot stove - on a par with watching him mow the lawn, I must say). No one lost a toe, the grass is cut and I came away with a sense of satisfaction that I have not for one day in my life received from cleaning the loo, or washing the floors, or any other indoor chore for that matter. Not that those things can't be satisfying, because they certainly can - usually in a I-vanquished-you-lurking-germs, begone-and-darken-my-bowl-no-more-or-for-at-least-48-hours kind of way. But I really, really liked it.
Aaaaaaaaaaanyway. I mowed the lawns this weekend. I even strimmed the edges and tried (for the love of god, tried) to mow in straight lines. This was momentous because thus far in my life my lawn mowing activity has consisted of:
- watching my mother or father mow the lawn
- wathing P mow the lawn
- letting my horse mow the lawn
You will note that none of the above involved me handling a lawnmower. My mother (and by extension my father) didn't trust me with a mower (or in the kitchen, in the tool shed, with a saw etc etc - with good reason - I am the girl who just today managed to slice her little finger on the edge of a the clip from a manila folder, for crying out loud). It wasn't only that I was useless and couldn't be trusted not to damage myself, but Mum really has a thing for a properly mown lawn, with the edges done right and all in straight lines. I am not very good at straight lines.
I usually watch P mow the lawns because, well, is there anything better than sitting on your deck in late afternoon sunlight watching your husband be all domesticated and vaguely sweaty? I think not.
And Bert, well, he was GOOD at keeping the grass down. I just had to scoop the poop afterwards.
So, yes, I did it myself this weekend (I had P trapped inside slaving over a hot stove - on a par with watching him mow the lawn, I must say). No one lost a toe, the grass is cut and I came away with a sense of satisfaction that I have not for one day in my life received from cleaning the loo, or washing the floors, or any other indoor chore for that matter. Not that those things can't be satisfying, because they certainly can - usually in a I-vanquished-you-lurking-germs, begone-and-darken-my-bowl-no-more-or-for-at-least-48-hours kind of way. But I really, really liked it.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
la la la, very small things
Long time, no type. You know, caused by the usual: work, a dearth of anything valuable to say (HA. Something of value!? I'm sure you're all clamouring for a return of the "shitty cafe music updates" AMIRITE? I'm always producing kwality kontent on this 'ere blog!)
I have the next two days off - a glorious four day weekend ahead of me. P's organised it, the destination is a surprise (who knows? He might propose! Oh, wait. We already did that.) I cannot wait. Our wee home is dealing surprisingly well with the stresses of four adults and two children, but my mental capacity is not. Weekdays are fine, really, but on weekends I get pretty desperate for some quiet. I know, says you. How on earth will you ever be a mother? Well, that's not a given and also, I keep thinking that there must be some biological pay-off to having children of which I'm not yet aware. I mean, the kids are pretty cute, sure, but they're so....relentless. And grubby. To be fair to them, my excitement is also over the desire for space from their parents, too.
So yes, I intend to souse myself in wine, whiskey and books this weekend and maybe, if he's specially lucky, I'll converse with my husband too. No guarantees, P!
Ok, so I completely lost my train of thought (work interrupted, how rude. Or entirely predictable). Anyway, I hope to see you here a revitalised woman soon. Ha.
I have the next two days off - a glorious four day weekend ahead of me. P's organised it, the destination is a surprise (who knows? He might propose! Oh, wait. We already did that.) I cannot wait. Our wee home is dealing surprisingly well with the stresses of four adults and two children, but my mental capacity is not. Weekdays are fine, really, but on weekends I get pretty desperate for some quiet. I know, says you. How on earth will you ever be a mother? Well, that's not a given and also, I keep thinking that there must be some biological pay-off to having children of which I'm not yet aware. I mean, the kids are pretty cute, sure, but they're so....relentless. And grubby. To be fair to them, my excitement is also over the desire for space from their parents, too.
So yes, I intend to souse myself in wine, whiskey and books this weekend and maybe, if he's specially lucky, I'll converse with my husband too. No guarantees, P!
Ok, so I completely lost my train of thought (work interrupted, how rude. Or entirely predictable). Anyway, I hope to see you here a revitalised woman soon. Ha.
Friday, 20 September 2013
pop quiz
This is about me, of course. When wouldn't it be?
1. You see Three drop his bowl of porridge on the floor. Do you:
(A) Immediately run for the cloth to wipe it up.
(B) Tell Three's parents what he's done.
(C) Huff a bit under your breath and pretend you didn't notice the problem.
2. It's the middle of the night and One is crying. Do you:
(A) Get up and calm the child back to sleep.
(B) Go back to sleep; it's his parents' problem.
(C) Roll over and huff in your husband's ear: 'will somebody SORT THAT OUT PLEASE'.
3. You're watching the telly and Three is desperate for today's 4th viewing of some dire cartoon on DVD. Do you:
(A) Say 'Bad luck Buster, auntie wants to watch the news.'
(B) Say 'Of course my precious, whatever your heart desires.'
(C) Say 'Go to bed.'
4. You're washing the dishes when you become aware of a funky aroma emanating from the tea towel. Do you:
(A) Continue washing. Ignore the problem, it'll go away.
(B) Sniff every tea towel in the drawer and find that 50% are suffering from some kind of stank issue.
(C) Fling it in the direction of the laundry and huff as you walk away from the problem.
Correct answers, if you're me, appear to be (C), (C), (A), (B). But it would appear that there are NO RIGHT ANSWERS generally with smalls. Especially when your tea towels have been inadequately washed with what seems to be effluvia of small child.
Grizzle over - just one last question:
4. One wants to play a game where you pretend to share his blanky then he snatches it away. Do you:
(A) Play once then get bored and ignore him.
(B) Snatch the blanky for a cuddle on your own.
(C) Play again and again because of the priceless smile that cracks his face every time you do it. And because he only plays that game with you.
(C), of course.
1. You see Three drop his bowl of porridge on the floor. Do you:
(A) Immediately run for the cloth to wipe it up.
(B) Tell Three's parents what he's done.
(C) Huff a bit under your breath and pretend you didn't notice the problem.
2. It's the middle of the night and One is crying. Do you:
(A) Get up and calm the child back to sleep.
(B) Go back to sleep; it's his parents' problem.
(C) Roll over and huff in your husband's ear: 'will somebody SORT THAT OUT PLEASE'.
3. You're watching the telly and Three is desperate for today's 4th viewing of some dire cartoon on DVD. Do you:
(A) Say 'Bad luck Buster, auntie wants to watch the news.'
(B) Say 'Of course my precious, whatever your heart desires.'
(C) Say 'Go to bed.'
4. You're washing the dishes when you become aware of a funky aroma emanating from the tea towel. Do you:
(A) Continue washing. Ignore the problem, it'll go away.
(B) Sniff every tea towel in the drawer and find that 50% are suffering from some kind of stank issue.
(C) Fling it in the direction of the laundry and huff as you walk away from the problem.
Correct answers, if you're me, appear to be (C), (C), (A), (B). But it would appear that there are NO RIGHT ANSWERS generally with smalls. Especially when your tea towels have been inadequately washed with what seems to be effluvia of small child.
Grizzle over - just one last question:
4. One wants to play a game where you pretend to share his blanky then he snatches it away. Do you:
(A) Play once then get bored and ignore him.
(B) Snatch the blanky for a cuddle on your own.
(C) Play again and again because of the priceless smile that cracks his face every time you do it. And because he only plays that game with you.
(C), of course.
Monday, 9 September 2013
add lolcats caption here
Found on my front mat on Friday:
It's hard to see, but if you check out that expression up close you will be at risk of the laser death rays. That cat did not want to be disturbed.
What shall we call him? Harry?
 |
| FORGET GRUMPY CAT. THIS OLD GINGER PUSS THAT LIVES NEXT DOOR IS THE GRUMPIEST CAT ALIVE. ALSO, SEE HOW MY FRONT YARD RESEMBLES A GIANT KITTY LITTER BOX? |
What shall we call him? Harry?
spring weekend causes uncharacteristic episode of positivity
Friday was a particularly lovely day. Posterity, take note:
Ate my first piece of tasty steak off the giant barbeque last night. Flat iron and sirloin, if you must know. P is a culinary god: he served it with a beautiful cos and parsley salad with a simple lemon dressing, as well as his take on potatoes dauphinoise and a dab of Hot English Mustard. A man who knows the way to fatten up his wife properly, that one. It did look a little ridiculous - two wee steaks sitting on the most enormous piece of powder coated steel that could serve as a boat, should you wish to add an outboard motor. If Thanksgiving were a thing here in the Land of the Long White Cloud, I'd have a turkey on that bad boy in a heartbeat. SRSLY. It's huge.
- Work got done. That all-too-infrequent sense of satisfaction of churning out a job in a timely way well produced? I had it. I need to get it more often, self.
- Boss cheerily noted 'why don't you go home, you've got that report done' at 4.15. I was out of the building by 4.16.
- There was sunshine outside!
- On the way home, I ducked into Smith & Caugheys and sprayed myself with nice perfume. Such a nice (free!) treat. Doesn't take much to flick my switch, really.
- While sniffing my wrist waiting to cross a major intersection, I witnessed a car accident. That might not sound very lovely, but it was just a minor scrape thanks to a last minute swerve with no injuries, so I count my lucky stars. Plenty of witnesses to comment; I couldn't see who had been at fault from my angle and I got to keep walking.
- Home: empty on arrival. I poured a G&T ---- vacuumed, and cleaned the bathroom. Who knew that could be so satisfying on a Friday evening?
- Gussied up (I don't do that often enough!) and hit Kingsland Friday night with friends. Drinks, lovely French dinner, safe in bed by 11. Good times.
- Walked home from Kingsland with P, arm in arm, chatting, laughing. He's a good sort.
Ate my first piece of tasty steak off the giant barbeque last night. Flat iron and sirloin, if you must know. P is a culinary god: he served it with a beautiful cos and parsley salad with a simple lemon dressing, as well as his take on potatoes dauphinoise and a dab of Hot English Mustard. A man who knows the way to fatten up his wife properly, that one. It did look a little ridiculous - two wee steaks sitting on the most enormous piece of powder coated steel that could serve as a boat, should you wish to add an outboard motor. If Thanksgiving were a thing here in the Land of the Long White Cloud, I'd have a turkey on that bad boy in a heartbeat. SRSLY. It's huge.
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