Garden Aid

Spring. It's crap. Everywhere you look there's greenery sprouting happily from the earth. Everywhere, that is, except for the Emery house. Two years of first time home ownership have taught me this: Mandy and I should be banned from gardens worldwide. If we were ever brought up for charges in a court of law it would be for herbicide, and we'd get life, because pretty much every plant we've ever laid our hands on has died, and quickly at that.

Some things come naturally to individuals. I'm good with people, Mandy is extremely talented when it comes to horses' rear ends and placing her slender arms up them*, Bob is a baseboard eater without equal, and Chinabean can lie in one position with her stuffed goose in her mouth for hours on end. It is these little gifts we are given in life, and our talents come naturally to us. Plants and their care, however, rank up there with our grasp of Urdu or ability to throat sing. Not good.

For educational purposes, I shall show you some of the things we've killed recently, or are in the process of killing.

This is our variegated house plant. I believe it is supposed to look like this:

Picture borrowed without permission from GardenWeb, courtesy of tjsangel. No bandwidth was stolen.

Our next exhibit is a once very pretty Eugenia topiary. You wouldn't believe the glowing vitality of the plant when I bought it. It was dead in three days.

I don't think we've really come to terms with it's passing. We've been watering it devotedly for three weeks. Mandy still asks me if I think it'll come back to life. I lie and tell her yes because the truth is too painful to face.

I could go on and on with photos of dead or dying plants we have in the house and the multitude we have in what we loosely term our "flowerbeds" outside the house, including but not limited to the two Alberta Spruces we planted last year that are now compost in one of the parks in town. The point is we've made it quite obvious to everyone involved that we've no bloody idea what we're doing when it comes to plant life, and today I finally faced the facts and called in some help.

So I was stopped at a red light the other day when I noticed the little blue car in front of me with a sweet-looking older woman behind the wheel. The little blue car had "Garden Consultant" and a telephone number written simply on it, and I thought to myself, now that's what we need - someone that can consult our garden and tell it how shitty a job it is doing. I called the number I'd jotted down from the back of the car today and an older woman with a lilting English accent answered. I told her how crap our garden was and she said she could help. After 5 minutes of my weeping gratitude, I straightened myself out and arranged for her to come round and consult our garden this coming Saturday. She charges $44 an hour, which, neatly, is the length of her average consultation apparently. After I hung up I imagined a little old English lady creating the perfect English country garden we've always dreamed of for half an hour.

I can't wait to see what Garden Consulting actually is. Plant psychology? Hippie crystals and mystic chanting? Or will she be like the management consultants in Office Space and, if so, can we fire the rose bush?

On a side note, work on the inside of the house is still moving along steadily, and we're not very far off from a photo essay of before and afters. Soon, I swear it.

* Any new readers out there, Mandy is a trained veterinarian, not a young woman with a horse/bottom fetish.

Houston, We Have A Problem

As many sometime readers might know, there was a long stretch of inactivity on the Emery house over the past few months, but that all changed a month ago. Since that glorious day, loads has been done on the li'l ol' house in Lethbridge, and pretty much all of it fantastic work. It's all gone so swimmingly, in fact, that we've become a little smug around these parts. "Oh, we should get the floorers in," we said to each other. Cue two weeks later: "Oh, look the floorers have finished! And doesn't it all look marvelous!" we then said (and don't worry, we'll be showing off the pics soon). Today however, we came crashing back to earth again as we realised that renovations are never meant to be smooth and plain sailing. Case in point:

Those pipes. To the untrained eye they look like your normal piping in a bathroom - easily covered up and eminently manageable. To me, however, they look like the exposed large intestine of Satan, as viewed during autopsy. Why? Because those little tubes of plastic are likely going to cost me large amounts of dollars, and that does not make me happy.

See, what happened is that Mandy and I found a really nice looking vanity to install in the Impossibly Small Bathroom (or, our powder room, as the Canadians in my life inform me), and that vanity is a stand alone kinda structure. This means that those pipes are a) going to be visible when we install the very nice vanity, and b) the angles are all waaayy off for vanity installation. This means that we're going to have to get a plumber in to rearrange all the pipes, cut in to the wall and realign, and then pay to have said plumber complete the installation. And that's not even mentioning the cost of getting the electrician in to sort out those wayward wires to the top right of the screen (they extend high up and all over the place - if I work up the energy I'll show you it all in full detail later). It never ever ends, even when you think you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

This is why we work like dogs. So that we can fund the achingly slow improvement of our 100 year old house. Mandy and I are going to South America (Peru, Brazil and hopefully a few other places) for the month of November and, I swear, we will not talk about the house ONCE while we are away. I'm ready for this all to end.

Pop Quiz

The first thing that comes to mind when looking at the above photo is:

a: Dustin Hoffman in "Outbreak"
b: Dustin Hoffman in "The Graduate"
c: Sharon Stone in "Sliver"
d: My, you look scrumptious. Have you been working out?
e: There be noxious fumes in that there household. Mandy's been making bean burritos again.
f: Safety first, kids!
g: I'm a smallish pot-like receptacle for brewed tea, both diminutive and rotund
h: Sharon Stone in "Sliver"

There are no incorrect answers. And...begin.

Well, Not Quite What We Thought We Ordered...

...but we'll take it anyway.

Long time readers of this, at times silly, houseblog might remember a post of January 2007, entitled "I See A Bad Mood Rising". There the viewer could witness the misery that was our front entryway/conservatory/mudroom/insert other term for welcoming area in the front of a house here. This is what the reader would have seen.


After almost two years of living with crappy looking OSB greeting us when we came home, today I came home to this:

Now I could have sworn that we picked out a different tiling type linoleum at the floor store, but beggars can't be choosers, and for the past year and a half we have definitely been beggars. Mandy really likes it, I think it's fine, and all in all it's about twenty truckloads of chicken manure better than the sight we had before.

A Taster

Flooring: Questions Answered

From the very first day we moved in to this old house of ours we've been aching to know what lay beneath the crappy 60¢ a square foot laminate. Aching I tell you. "Why didn't you just look?" I hear you think to yourself. Well, my silly, silly friend, I'll explain this slowly: if we tore up the laminate to have a look at what lay beneath we would then have to deal with whatever it was that was beneath the laminate, you follow? Much like an armadillo (now I've never met an armadillo so I've no idea of the accuracy of this next statement, being more comfortable talking about pangolin defensive responses, yet I will, bravely, I might add, use the armadillo as an example for the benefit of the many North American readers this blog has. Yes, you're welcome), much like an armadillo rolling itself into ball and pretending whoever is sniffing it simply isn't there, I have ignored the possible hardwood beneath the laminate because I knew in my heart of hearts that looking beneath said laminate would end up in me having to do a whole lot of work. Lazy, perhaps, but brilliant? Of course. I'm very much from the armadillo school of thought, me.

However that all changed today. We have the flooring people we contracted for the next bit of work coming tomorrow, which meant we had to knuckle down and finally reveal What Lay Beneath. In the space of one short afternoon we had the answer to all our flooring questions. Have a look.

Now I'm the last person that could ever be called an expert on these matters, in fact some might argue that I'm the complete opposite, but that looks like oak to me. If you have any other opinions please feel free to weigh in on the comments section, but that sure does look like oak. And I frigging hate oak. I loathe it, always have. Some oak does look fantastic, and a quick google of "old oak floors" turns up some beautiful examples of wide plank, barn-reclaimed oak that I'd kill to have in the house, but the above pic shows everything I dislike about the wood. Yes, I'm aware that this is tantamount to blasphemy on the houseblogging and old house renovation circuit, but you can't pick what you like. Apart from my dislike of oak, the planks are about an inch thick each, another thing we don't like. So we're covering it all up, starting tomorrow, but more about that later. And before anyone starts having heart palpitations, I plan on using kate h.'s excellent suggestion from my last post, namely having a bunch of photos of the floor available so future owners know what they're dealing with. Besides, the floor we're installing tomorrow will be a floating floor, leaving the oak pristine beneath.

My favourite thing about today was seeing the cheap laminate fly out of the bedroom window, followed closely by the discovery of how quick and easy it is to get rid of laminate when you finally get around to doing it. The whole removal process took about 30 minutes for three biggish rooms.

The day's activities revealed one other point of interest. We watch a lot of CSI (except for the Miami crap. That David Caruso is hands down the most irritating man on television), and I believe this is what forensic investigators term "a void". The young and faint of heart may need to turn away for the next picture - you may find it disturbing.

Yep. That's where it happened. That's where a crazy lady painted the copper grates I spent so long cleaning off with a paint sprayer. I'm sorry you had to see that.

One last note. By Wednesday, the abyss in our bedroom should be no more. Everyone, please say goodbye to the hole.

Goodbye hole.

The Great Fireplace Makeover

Hi. Remember me? Thought not. I'm Chris, and this is my houseblog. Welcome, tread lightly, leave only footprints, pick up a paintbrush and help me finish this bastard off and all that nonsense.

Anyway, as I mentioned one post ago, we have in fact been working on our house, even if all evidence suggests the contrary. We've been stealing hours from our hectic workaday lives to paint and plan and organise people to work on our little old bungalow, and we're inching our way to finishdom. I've lamented many a time on this blog on how I never seem to have the energy anymore to tackle the big projects and have handed the majority of these over to licensed professionals, but one project we're tackling at the mo will be done entirely by yours truly. And may God have mercy on it, etc. etc. But let me skip the whining and get right to the skinny:

One of the things we fell in love with in this old house upon our first viewing was the fireplace. It greets you as soon as you walk in the door, and the actual fireplace of it is beautiful. Ancient and original, untouched by the pre-owners godforsaken love affair with green paint, it is the epitome of everything we love in an old house, even to the point where we can live with the fact that it doesn't work (and will never work, according to the experts we've had in). One thing we've never liked is the surround however. I'd bet Bob's life that the brickwork is not original. But then I'd bet Bob's life just for a Wendy's Baconator after what he did to our baseboards last year, so I'm not the best person to trust, right? You have a look and judge for yourself, you doubter you.


So here's my thought: What if I sand the mantle down, getting rid of the multitude of burn marks and paint splodges in the process, then stain it a deep mahogany, so deep brown that it almost borders on black, and then paint the brickwork a high gloss white? The dark brown of the wood would tie in nicely with the dark tones of the fireplace proper, and the white would keep the focus right where it should be - on our bronze/copper/whatever the hell, I'm past caring, fireplace insert. Nice, right? I'm thinking the white is a gamble, but I dislike the brickwork enough to try, and woe fall upon the man or dog who tries to stand in my way. Chinabean just read that and stepped backwards in sheer terror of her powerful master. She better recognise.

I think the interesting grain of the mantle might look pretty cool once stained.

So far I've got about an hours worth of sanding on the mantle under my belt (the picture above is pre-sanding), and more is needed. The brickwork painting should be pretty straightforward, if a little labour intensive from what I've read, and then one big polish of the fireplace itself and we'll be on like a scone.

I've just no idea when I'm going to get round to finishing it. We're moving rooms around all weekend in preparation for the flooring people who start on Monday. I'm sorry, I have to say that again. In preparation for the flooring people who start on Monday. I don't think there are more exciting words in the English language than that little phrase. Except perhaps the word "moist", which is both fun to say and exceedingly filthy at the same time. But I digress. As I was saying, I'm not sure when I'll have the time to finish it, but I think it'll be worth the effort.

A Letter To My Blog

Dear Emery Restoration

Oh poor neglected houseblog. I've been meaning to write, I really have. It's just been a crazy month and every time I seat my aching arse down at the computer after yet another hard days work, I find myself saying, "I'll do a post any minute now, I swear it. Let me ease into it by, I don't know, looking at some humourous cat photos first. Now Mandy wants to see what that pathetic excuse for a human being Perez Hilton has to say. And what's that you say? Shockwave has a new time wasting game up? It'll only take a moment I promise...". Rinse and repeat. Basically I'm tired. Tired after working like a dog, and tired of living in an unfinished house, and I struggle to get up the energy to type a few half-arsed witty lines on you, oh blog of mine.

But wait! Before you look away, blog, we have been getting stuff done around here! We really have. The bedroom, hold your breath now, is 90% finished. And it looks awesome. All that's left is the flooring and then we can move out of the cramped little room in the totally ridiculous second floor back into a bedroom without a hole in the middle of it. I know, I know, you want to see what it looks like, blog, but you'll have to wait. We've done so much work that I think I'll do a before and after for greater effect.

It's not just the bedroom we've worked on either. We've had Eli of the Masterful Mudding in and he's finished off the dining room and living room. The joins are crisp and succulent. The archway is beautifully finished and sultry. The ceiling is flat and gagging for a coat of primer. Original light fixtures have been repaired, cleaned up and await installation. In short, we're so close I can taste it to the point where we can call our friends and organise our first dinner party with martinis and roast chicken and...you get the picture. Work is being worked, and the Emery pocket book is getting lighter by the mud and floor load.

I'll post some pictures on your forsaken carcass, blog, and soon. Bear with us a little longer and all will be revealed.

By the way, I want you to know it's not you, it's me. You've done nothing wrong here. I've just got to get my head and living space right, and we'll be reunited like the codependent types we know each other to be.

Lots of love

Chris

My Breath Is Just Fine After All

False alarm, people, you can come a little closer. Apparently my BO situation is just fine, thanks for asking.

So this morning I called my flooring guy to find out what the heck is up with the no quote situation, and he came over all confused. "But I sent it to you on the 24th of January", he said. Bloody spam filters, I thought. That GMail nonsense is far too efficient. I've missed loads of emails, and not only spam. Emails that could potentially be life-changing have missed my inbox and gone straight to the spam folder. Why, just the other day I glanced at my so-called spam and found out that General Odewaje of Lagos, Nigeria, had sadly passed away in a roadside ambush, and his family had wanted to use me (me! Little ol' me!) as a contact and holder of a large amount of his foreign currency! And best of all, I get to keep 20% of the $1. 9 billion dollars! Ha! I guess we don't need to worry about holes in bedroom floors any more, Chinabean, we're on our way up in the world. And, according to one of the other emails I found, I can make that move on up with a much larger unit with which to please my "sad woman" (I wish Mandy would keep the details of our personal life to herself), and an authentic Rolex of my very own! Wizard.

Anyway, so buddy sent through a duplicate of the quote, and I'm not ashamed to say I spat my tea all over the computer screen when I saw the rather large number at the end of the page. I know I said that we'd probably accept the proposal no matter the figure, but there's only so many large digits this poor immigrant can take. The company is very well considered in town and their work is supposed to be timely and professional, but I'm prepared to take a little less timeliness and a bit of sloppy work (hey, I've been doing all the work up until now, right?) if it means our unborn child might be able to go to school one day, and do so wearing clothes. So I've decided to get a few more quotes in, which is after all the way you're supposed to do things.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to top up my Cialis supplies.

You Can Be Honest, Does My Breath Smell?

Do I have noxious body odour? I had spinach the other day. Do I still have some in my teeth? No? Well. That's me stumped then.

Why the sudden interest in my personal hygiene? Scroll down a little if you will. See the blog entry before last? Revelations and Head Hangings? If you scan through that you'll note that we were having the floor guy over the next day to have a look at our chasm floors and structure a quote based thereon. Please note the date of that entry: Jan 15. Now please note todays date: Feb 4. Through the use of my super-advanced mathematics skill I have deduced that that makes it 20 days since buddy stopped by to give us a quote. When I had set up that appointment Billy O'NoQuote had told me, "I'd love to come by! This is our quiet time of year. Yes, I'm sure we could get started right away." And still nothing.

Mandy and I have talked this one through taking every angle in to account, and the only thing I can think of is that Matey NoQuote McGee is not interested in doing the floors in our house.

And the strangest thing of all is this: I'm kind of hurt.