… ya don’t.

I’ve been deadlining the past couple of weeks and have about a week and a half to go. The work is going well, but doing a number of small projects at once crowds my brain. I’m also going gangbusters on house projects in my spare time. (Ah, spring! It brings out the constructive insanity in a body.)

All that’s to the good, and life is dandy fine. Don’t get me wrong.

But the last few days have also brought a steady stream of itty-bitty time-wasters and irritations. Not one is of the slightest importance by itself, but you know how it goes. After a few days of having the cat wake you up at 3:00 a.m., losing your Internet service repeatedly, having a dog vomit on your shoes just when you’ve almost gotten that idea you’ve been struggling with, answering too many phone calls, and trying to replace a defective (yes, you warned me) car part for something less than the cost of the federal debt … well, today I feel like a) crying, b) kicking a dog (any old dog), or c) taking up chemical abuse.

I’ll do none of the above, of course. But I figured I owed you an explanation for my lack of brilliance and productivity.

There. Having gotten that out of my system, I’ll probably think of something just devastatingly witty and insightful for tomorrow.

Uh … but don’t count on it, okay?

It’s times like these that I wish I had a wife … a nice “helpmeet” to prepare healthy meals, take care of the pesky details, and ensure that the world is kept away while I capital-C Create. Or a gloriously efficient and nearly silent assistant who could just Handle It All. Not that I’m comparing myself favorably to the greats (what nerve), but I’m very darned sure that Michelangelo couldn’t have been Michelangelo and Shakespeare wouldn’t have been able to write Shakespeare if they had to wait for the Internet repairman, cook their own meals, or worry that the library lost the book they absolutely knew they had already returned.

Heck, forget the greats. Even the mediocres need mental space to create. I’m pretty sure Thomas Kinkade couldn’t have painted all that glurge and John Grisham couldn’t have written all those potboilers if they didn’t have somebody else taking care of life’s little necessities for them.

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Stuff I’ve been collecting for you while having the living room flooring done, ripping siding off the house, and extracting rusted bicycles from the foliage.* Oh, and deadlining, too.

• “Neighbors confront alcoholic child abuser about his lawn.” (Don’t worry, it’s only The Onion this time.)
• Not that you actually needed proof that government is filled with idiots …
• An ISP that puts privacy first?
• Did you know there was a U.S. holiday called Loyalty Day? I didn’t. But it’s coming right up. Clearly we need to celebrate!
• “Born this way.” This article would be fascinating if it admitted the existence of something other than conservatives and liberals.
• I hesitated to post this. Seems reports of horrific weapons-in-development ring alarms every week, and many of them never go farther than that. Must admit, though, this one’s particularly creepy. Let’s hope this is one of the vaporware weapons.
• One of the few intelligent things I’ve seen about the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case.
• Hmmmm. And wasn’t it just a week or two ago that we were praising this guy for his enlightened views on the drug war?
• Alternative currencies. In the real world. In Greece. (H/T EN)
• The New Yorker belatedly discovers medical tourism (aka affordable medical care).

Happy Friday the 13th!

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* Okay, only one rusted bicycle. But I’ll bet that’s more bicycles than you have integrated into your landscaping. (The old car tire and the broken float are bonuses.) It’s a testimony to the sort of neighborhood I live in that within an hour of tossing that non-functional bike onto a trash heap, somebody asked if he could have it. Said he figured it was worth at least three bucks from a scrap dealer.

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Saturday I learned that one of my dearest friends has inoperable pancreatic cancer. Even in this day of improving cancer treatments, the odds on that particular type are … well, better than the odds of winning MegaMillions, but worse than almost every other type of cancer.

On the good side, she’s got a partner who loves her and is capable of taking care of her. She’s also got one of the world’s great daughters, who flew thousands of miles to be here as soon as she heard.

But all things considered, that’s not much of a good side.

It occurs to me that among the many, many hells of having cancer is being forced to deal with friends who are well-meaning but don’t know whether to give you space or smother you with love, offers of help, casseroles, egregious advice on alternative therapies, and weeping.

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Saturday I was angry-numb. Sunday, too. No Easter rebirth in these parts. Angry about J’s cancer. Angry at feeling unable to help. Then angry at myself for being so self-centered when my friend, and not my own feelings, should be the focus.

Sunday evening I did something I never do — drowned my sorrows in not one but two hefty bloody Marys. (I’m usually stupid enough after one drink.) Then I called another friend of mine (and J’s), a medical person who has a talent for bringing calm and good sense to bad situations.

It helped.

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The weather, usually bleak this time of year, decided to be obscenely cheerful. So I went outside, took a claw hammer, and began ripping tatty old fiberboard shingles off the walls to uncover the cool 106-year-old tongue-and-groove wood beneath.

That helped, too.

(Oh yeah, and for you who recall my earlier posts on the topic of siding, it also helped that the junky shingles getting flung into a heap at the fenceline appear to be something cardboardish and not, I am blessedly assured, asbestos.)

Doesn’t look very impressive now, but you just wait until I’ve painted the walls and trimmed the windows and corners with cedar. Meantime, it may look like heck, but deconstruction is doing my mood a world of good.

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It’s not that fostering a dog is a full-time occupation — although dealing with the politics of a canine pack can be as consuming as (though much more honest and direct than) dealing with human politics.

I have Robbie — normally the bully of the bunch, but this time remaining blessedly aloof. Clearly he believes introduction of a new female is a problem to be worked out solely by the girls.

There’s Nadja. She’s low dog on the totem pole, but those few privileges she can claim for her own are hers, by damn. She’ll even head Robbie away from the Costco bed I fished out of a dumpster a few months ago. Woe betide any mere new dog who so much as looks in that direction.

Finally, we come to Princess Ava Prettypaws and the new girl, Sweetie. Both are cattle dogs (Ava, having no idea she’s a mix, considers herself a privileged purebred). Both expect to be the one at “Mom’s” knee at all times. Neither is willing to accept that Mom has two knees.

I intended to discourage Sweetie from bonding with me, given that she’s here only temporarily. I had intended to kennel her much of the time and not integrate her with the pack. But turns out she’s one of those dogs who laughs — laughs! — at wire mesh and simple latches. She chewed her way out and integrated herself with the pack on her first morning here. Now my job is just to keep things civilized.

Jake MacGregor’s expression, “Keep your dog pants on!” is having at least some effect.

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No, it’s not that fostering a dog is a full-time occupation, but between that and finally (almost) finishing the living room a year after I intended to feels like full-time work. Who knew that climbing up and down a few ladder steps for painting and wallpapering could be as hard on the body as scaling serious mountains?

My thighs know. They remind me with grievous wails every time I sit down or stand up. Climbing stairs? Please. Do not even mention climbing stairs. My thighs will have a nervous breakdown.

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So you’ll have to forgive me for having nothing witty to add about the dangers of high unemployment in Europe. I can’t even rouse any verbal indignation over the IRS trying to claim the right to revoke the passports of allegedly delinquent taxpayers. Oh yes, I seethe inside. But even the fact that the wretched provision is (so typically!) buried as usual in some big old must-pass transportation bill can’t draw a loud snarl from me at the moment.

I’m too tired even to bleat.

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After dragging butt through a short morning dog walk I did stop at the local greasy spoon and have an enormous, completely disgusting anti-health-food breakfast. That helped.

But really, only Tahiti can guarantee a full recovery. So. Who’s offering? Anybody? Anybody?

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And about finishing that living room …

If you’ve hung out in these parts for a while, you may recall that last spring I tore up the really-not-too-bad living-room carpet that came with the house. Expecting to find beauteous oak, I discovered … ghosts of builders past.

You guys offered some lively suggestions about what to do with that weird old floor. I have to tell you, I took none of them. I thought seriously about all those clever things, I really did. But in the end, I decided the problems were just too large. Discovering that the nice family trying to keep the local flooring shoppe alive were having a huge sale, I opted for the easy way out. A couple of months ago, I bought laminate and now I’ve saved up my pennies to get the shoppe to install it.

I made an appointment for mid-April to force myself to finish everything else that’s needed doing in the room. The old barely functioning pellet stove — gone! The truly gigantic, hideous, OMG-who-can-believe-anybody-would-build-anything-this-ugly stove surround — out! The ruined wall behind the surround — patched, papered, and painted. Ceiling painted. Bookshelves and trim painted. Busted baseboard moldings replaced. Or about to be.

Light spotted at the end of the tunnel.

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But still, it’s the cold light of a Northwest spring. Tahiti … ah, the light is different there. Warmer. And the gin-and-tonics on the beach are unparalleled.

Seriously. I’m ready. It’s just a matter of time. And money. Anybody out there have a Gulfstream and want to swing by and pick me up on your way to the South Pacific?

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Loud parties all over the neighborhood yesterday. Well, it’s Carnival. One loud week a year, no problem. A Fourth of July that goes on for two weeks, no problem.

But the neighborhood of my new-old house is beginning to get me down. Badly.

You buy in a poor neighborhood, you expect some stuff. And hey, I’m the person who once told a real estate agent I’d rather live next to tar-paper shacks than the McMansions he insisted on showing me.

But on top of the Notorious Neighbor from Hell, the quality of living here has deteriorated in the last year (and in the last 10, other neighbors say). There’s been some disturbing sh*t going on. Like kids throwing stuff into my backyard — including things that could hurt the dogs. Like kids climbing the rickety fence into my backyard to retrieve soccer balls from their games in the empty lot behind my place (I’m always glad to get their arrant soccer balls for them, but it embarrasses them to knock on my door to ask.) Like more litter than a landfill. Litter I pick up all the time but can’t keep up with.

This is the house directly across the street:

That’s its permanent condition, too, not just some temporary post-party rubble.

No, I don’t think litter police should intervene (though if I were the landlord of the horde of young men who live there I’d be on their ass right now for treating my property that way).

But I am beginning to wonder why I’m spending so much time and money fixing up my own place if this is what the neighborhood is becoming. And worse, I’m beginning to feel like some officious old crank, fretting about what my neighbors are up to instead of minding my own business.

I’ve been looking at real estate listings and have sighed over a couple that have crappy houses but a couple of acres of land. But it’s not likely I can move any time soon unless I luck into a deal like I got on this place — rock bottom price with seller financing. Or get a lease-to-own deal, since any FRNs I have are tied up in this place. (Don’t even say the word “rent”; not with three dogs and a cat; besides, rentals are way higher than my payments here.) Even then, there’s a lot of fixing I still have to do before this house can go up for sale. And in this market, properties are sitting for a loooooong time.

I suppose an alternative might be to organize some sort of neighborhood pride movement. But that is so not me. And although there are plenty of neighbors who keep nice little homes, I wonder how much success anybody would have persuading boozy young renters to clean up their act.

Maybe I didn’t really make a mistake buying here. This house was my opportunity to get back to the NorthWET, after all. And I love the house itself. I love what it’s becoming.

But the trash and noise and rowdy behaviors are getting me down.

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Sorry for the non-posting. I’ve been taking advantage of unseasonably good weather and a break in deadlines to do a burst of late-summer projects.

During breaks in yardwork and painting, I’ve watched mindlessly entertaining videos like The Human Slinky and the Bed-Sheet Cat.

Occasionally even mind-activating videos like the ad for the new drug Complyacin. :-)

Or getting my Bovard fix. He has a good take on the “effectiveness” of federal job-training programs.

(I can’t believe I have friends who write for the Wall Street Journal. So respectable! And speaking of respectable, I just learned today that an old acquaintance has a minor planet named after him. He calls it an asteroid, but that’s not what it says online. I don’t actually know the difference. Anyhow, you’ve got to admit that having your name on even an asteroid or a “minor” planet is a bigger deal than most of us will ever earn.)

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Commentor Old Printer swore off the blog today, calling my attitude “vile.” He was talking about the caption I put on that ghastly falling-man photo on 9-11.

I wasn’t surprised to see him go. He had interesting things to say and I’m sorry he left. But he was quick to anger, especially over any implication that the U.S. government might be anything but well-meaning and fundamentally decent — bumbling, perhaps, but always benevolent.

Whether I’m vile, you’ll have to judge. It’s possible. In any case, the photo was vile and I’m surprised somebody else didn’t object to it right away. I’d rather it had never been published anywhere. It seems indecent to capture the last seconds of a man’s life that way. Falling Man’s clothes are distinctive. Some wife, some mother, some child probably knows who he is and will live with that image forever. I’ll probably remove it as soon as it rolls off to page two; it feels wrong having it on the blog.

But the caption? It was only the truth. One of many.

—–

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If this post isn’t 100 percent coherent or perfectly spelled, it’s because my friend L and I just celebrated with bloody Marys (and I didn’t make either of them as “lite” as she requested). Work this afternoon is going to be … interesting.

One year ago today, at precisely this hour, I dragged my U-Haul trailer into town after a trip that was more eventful than I might have wished, but ended well with a little help from my friends.

I paused at the title company long enough to sign papers. I popped into the real estate office to pick up keys. I called L to say I’d made it — then I followed her on over to my new-old house. I was seeing the house for the very first time.

Before that, I’d viewed photos and gotten second-hand opinions (thanks to L, who found the place, and the real estate agent; and the home inspector, of course). But that was my first in-person experience. One year ago today.

I think L was extremely brave to have found and done all the legwork on a house purchase for someone else — especially an old house like this one. Very risky behavior there, L!

I loved it from the first moment.

In the year since, I’ve gotten a few surprises. But considering the “interesting” things a 100-year-old house can do, I’ve lucked out. I’ve done a ton and have 10 tons more to do. But I can say (knock wood) that never once have I run into any surprises as “interesting” as this one sent just this morning by a blog reader and fellow old-house adventurer.

At times I feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of the improvements still needed. L and not a few blogistas keep telling me to remember how far I’ve come in a year. So, in the name of celebrating not only the anniversary but a year’s worth of small, plodding accomplishments, here are a few befores and afters:

Living room before:

Living room after:

(Actually, since taking this photo I’ve torn up the carpet and removed the pellet stove and its surround. Temporarily it looks uglier than this — but it’s still progress!)

Dormer room before:

Dormer room after:

With new wall and closet behind the bed.

Kitchen before:

Kitchen after:

… with apologies to those who were expecting to see natural wood. I had good intentions, but the wood wasn’t in decent enough condition. And yes, the pink is ridiculous. But this house just affects me that way.

Garage before (ugh!):

Garage after:

Doors still to come.

And of course if you’ve been around a while, you’ve already seen before-and-afters on the sun porch.

So. Today the front door … tomorrow the trim. Ever onward!

Damn slowly onward. That’s how old houses go. But still … onward.

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Since I was five years old, I wanted a house with one of these. On the outside, it’s a door knocker, which nobody these days would ever think to use …

On the inside, it’s a portal that opens to lets the person outside declare themselves friend or foe. You know: “Joe sent me” (I could run a speakeasy!) or, “The eagle flies at midnight” (I could be a spy!) …

I was thrilled when my new-old house came with one in its front door. Alas, after having this brass relic for one year, less three days, my potential careers in bootleggery or selling secrets have ended. The front door had to go and with it my childhood fantasies.

You can see the deplorable condition of the old door. Or part of the deplorable condition. You can’t see that the old door was also two inches too narrow for the opening (cobbled in with an ugly board) and almost 1-1/2 inches too short (cobbled in with nothing; the sunporch became a lake when it rained). It also wouldn’t lock from the outside with its Depression-era (or perhaps even Edwardian-era) hardware.

Last weekend at a garage sale I scored a brand-new, still-in-the-wraps, pre-hung steel door with a pretty window in the top. It’s even the right size and has the correct direction of swing. $80 — Garage sale kismet strikes again. The sellers even delivered it for me. This weekend, out with the old, in with the new.

Will probably post a picture once I’ve finished painting the new door and its frame. It’ll be more attractive — and no more indoor swimming pool. But oh, I’ll miss scaring Mormon missionaries, pamphlet-waving church ladies, and cookie-bearing Girl Scouts by suddenly appearing to them as a shadowy (and I hope sinister!) figure through a hole in the door.

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