Larry, Darryl, and Darryl's Remodeling Company...Reeeel Cheep!

After having spent yet ANOTHER stinkin' Saturday digging myself out of a mess that another owner left for me (literally), I can't help but wonder why people do things, unless they're going to do them correctly!  It seems that the former owners of my little place (who I'm convinced was Larry, his brother Darryl, and his other brother Darryl) saw absolutely NO need to do anything properly.  Ever.

Take, for example, the "drainage" system in front of my garage.  Apparently it was installed correctly years ago, but the toll of rain and snow run-off eventually buried it.  So what did Larry and the Darryls do?  Instead of re-digging the line and clearing it, they decided to build a berm in front of the garage.  According to my neighbors, they spent a LOT of time shoveling sawdust, gravel, and dirt and building a nice little speedbump-style monument.  I can imagine their sweat-moistened foreheads gleaming in the Colorado sun as they proudly stood back, rested their flannel and plaid adorned arms on their shovels, and thought "That'll hold the water back reeeeeeel nice!"  Apparently, they failed to understand the basic laws of physics, whereby water runoff will find the path of least resistance, and simply go around the berm.  ((((((Smacking forehead)))))))

What this has meant for yours truly is that every time it's rained, or every time the snow has fallen and subsequently melted, my basement has flooded.  In an attempt to CORRECTLY fix the drainage issue, I've dug through roughly 30 feet of gravel, sand, sawdust, roughly 12-18 inches deep.  NOT easy digging.  At all.  This has caused ME to altogether too closely begin to resemble Larry, Darryl, and Darryl.

I walked by a lamp today and knocked it over.  With my damn bicep.  Or maybe it was my lats.  I dunno, I just know that somehow my arms are growing, my hair looks A LOT like theirs after my digging sessions, and I keep eyeing my chin suspiciously in case a beard hair tries to pop out.    I'm already far too self-conscious about my veiny, scrawny  "Madonna arms".  I fear if I keep having to dig, I'll morph in a female body-builder look.  Like Schwarzenegger.  (Or Stephenegger??)  Blech.    And as much as I love plaid and flannel, and the cozy mountain winter-y feel they evoke, I will now have to flush my wardrobe of any such outerwear in an attempt to stop the metamorphosis into a grizzled, buff, doofus-y mountain man.

So please, for anyone out there attempting to do a project, I implore you to do it correctly the FIRST time, and eschew the temptation to just do a LarryDarrylDarryl quick-fix.  Your future owners, who prefer to resemble the likes of Gwen Stefani, rather than Ahhhnold or Larry, Darryl, and Darryl will thank you.

Who assigned the mean cafeteria lady to MY life-buffet?

Why do I lately get the distinct impression that life is NOT letting me pick and choose those elements that I want?  I thought the best part about being a grown-up was that could eat whatever-the-heck you wanted at the life-buffet?

Feeling like maybe I've lingered just a BIT too long in line, pondering the less than ideal choices, and trying to get excited about overcooked options, trying to convince myself that that a crusty, heat-lamp induced skin over my choices is even remotely acceptable.  And in addition to the less-than-ideal choices, I also feel rushed and hurried, like I'm supposed to just take what I can from the "Mediocre Cafe", and  "Move ALONG, dearie!"

Well guess what, you crotchety old bag, I DO get to decide what I want out of life.  Yes, you may be the queen of your warmed-over domain, but I awoke today with that dawning re-realization that I don't HAVE to limit myself to just the choices at a sub-par buffet.  I do indeed get to choose.

So no more half-baked, overcooked options for me, thankyouverymuch.   The best part about being a grownup is that I get to decide which buffet I choose from, and it's time for this mountain chick to move on to a buffet with a better selection.  :)

For starters, I'd very much like a large helping of this kind of mountain kitchen:

And I believe I'd like to try some of this as well:

And and sample of 

And for dessert, I'll take two helpings of

(And if anyone wants to go ahead and just plunk The Rock into this last picture, I promise to leave a HUGE tip.)

Mary Tyler Less, or something like that....

Sometimes independence is a scary thing.  There's no one to give you perspective late at night when your thoughts are running rampant.  (And by "give you perspective", I mean there's no one to tell you you're being ridiculous and stop that whining and go to sleep. Ahem.)  Lately have been feeling like my little life was falling short of everything I want, or at least falling short of where I expected myself to be.

That dumb Mary Tyler Moore theme song has been rattling around in my head lately.  "You're gonna make it after all...."  Sweet loveable Mary Tyler Moore, who captured the hearts of a 70's generation with her cute smile and infectious youthfulness.  She even had a catchy little uplifting theme song, and looked great in tight pants.

Bitch.

Surely she didn't have 3 dogs whose primary goal in life is to shed their body weight in fur daily.  Or to eat things like fence panels and mini blinds.  And her apartment was CUTE.  She didn't have to buy a place that needed a good coat of fire, and attempt to make it liveable AND cute.  (I really need to have a strongly-worded conversation with the script writers of my show, and let them know I'm none too fond of some of the twists they've thrown in.)

All the same, it wasn't until I actually took a brief look back at how far I'd come that I actually started to feel better about things.  No, I don't recommend ruefully pining away for yesteryear.  But an occasional glimpse back on the track to see how much progress you've made can be a good thing.

So here are a few shots of the house when I started out, and where I've taken it.

Welcome to the asylum....  This was the the living room.  CHARMING shade of "Institutional Kill-Me-Now Green", yes?  Oh and those aren't shadows on the carpet.  That's staining.  The only thing worse than the color was the smell. 

And after.  No more carpet.  Or asylum-green walls.  :)

Looking the other way

And after

This was the kitchen.  While it LOOKED fairly intact in these photos, the tiles were all loose, and a small eco-system of mice had taken up residency in the falling-apart-cabinetry.  I ignored their squatters rights and their subsequent protests, as I tend to prefer a smell and vermin-free kitchen.

After.  Anyone who knows me knows I have a thing with checkerboard flooring.  I'd ALWAYS wanted a kitchen with this kind of floor. (Wide plank pine, stained and sealed.)  The beauty of it is also that it only cost around 5k to do this entire room.  I shopped smart, got deals from Craigslist and the Habitat Re-Stores, and poured myself into it.  I truly love this kitchen, and adding the island makes it one of the easiest-to-work in kitchens I've ever had.

 
The janky, off-kilter doorway.  Pretty sure that home builders in the 80's were all high, since this doorway was drastically out of plumb.

After, with an archway and some simple stained timber posts to flank the doorway.  

The upstairs bathroom before.  Rotting cabinetry, leaking toilet, and generally tacky.  For anyone considering a remodel, vinyl cabinets, flooring, and fixtures do NOT age well.  At all.  

After.  It only took me 6 months and learning a whole new sailor-type vocabulary to get the old tub out, and the new tub in, but I digress.  My favorite bathroom, because I learned how to use thick, uneven slate tiles, and interlace uniform, thin glass mosaics, and make it work.  Whole bathroom was only around $800.

And the vanity.  With leftover "mountain" slate tile backsplash.

And lastly for today, my stairs.  These were an eyesore after ripping out the stained and rotting carpet.

A little paint can go a long, long, LONG way:

Before, looking up:

And after.  Saw this on a sign in Estes Park, and loved it.  Used a paint pen and some carbon paper to sort of stencil/freehand paint it.

No, it's not a palace.  But it's affordable.  And it's mine.  And I did it myself.  And despite not having my own theme song, or a beret to throw, I think I'm gonna make it after all.  

Ward, I'd like you have a word with the Beaver.....

There's a certain amount of satisfaction that comes from a good DIY project.  And then there are days like this, when really I just want someone to blame.  "Ward, I'd like you have a word with the Beaver.  That rascal tore apart the kitchen, then he and Whitey went to go throw rocks in Miller's Pond".  Where the hell is my stereotypical blame-son, or savior-husband when I need them?  Oh yeah, I forgot.  I'm a "strong and independent" woman.

With a big ol' mess to clean up.  By myself.

Here is the nasty little underbelly of my house, in a bedroom that I'm attempting to move my daughter into in just a few days.  I feel like I shouldn't be looking at this, like some prankster pulled down my poor house's dorky house-pants, and exposed it's Toy Story underoos to all the other houses on the block.  I can almost hear the mocking now.  "Ha ha...lookit the dork with the scrawny pipes!  Soggy-drywalled weenie!"

Truth is, this hole has been there for roughly a year and a half, while I attempted to solve whatever leakage problem was apparent.  Replacing bad toilet, check.  Replacing tub and plumbing, check.  Re-connecting venting, check.  The latest fiasco is my discovery that the latest leak is from a faulty roof cap.  How do I know?  Because I'm just brilliant, that's how!   And because I could easily surmise that the water that dripped onto my head yesterday (IN THE BASEMENT) came from a leaky roof.  I'm just that good!

Either that, or I figured it out by tearing apart the kitchen, attempting to find where the dishwasher was leaking.  It was only AFTER rendering my kitchen like this that I figured out the cause:

And now I get to put it ALLLLLLLL back together.  By myself.  And I get to act "happy" about it, because that's what strong, capable, non-June Cleaver remodelers do, right?

Okay, I'll play.  But if anyone wants to loan me their scamp-ish, beanie-wearing son to blame, send me an email.  Or just go ahead and send me Ward.  I'll gladly revert to a circa-1950's role of helpless female, if only long enough to get the mess taken care of.

(Oh, and while Ward and the Beav are here, maybe they can help me program my camera's date-stamp.  God help me if this is like a "Camera Futura" and actually shows me pictures of what this (*&#! house will look like in May of 2012.)

Not quite "Food Porn"

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a love affair with cereal.  Not just ANY cereal, but Special K with Red Berries, to be precise.  So proud to be a healthy adult, and make such a wise food choice!  Until I looked at the bowl and realized it's basically just like Lucky Charms...for grownups.  All I do is pour it out and eat up all the "red berries", just like I used to with the marshmallows when I was a kid.   (Nice how they're not even called Strawberries.  Probably because some poor kid I used to kick in science class is now employed as a fancy schmancy food scientist, and what I'm eating is his morbid concoction of leftover food bits.  "Yezzz bozzzz.  Thezzze willlll pass for berriezzzz.....Mwaahhaaaa"  Because all scientists talk like Dexter and Deedee or Igor, right?)   No matter.  I remain firmly convinced that cereal is the perfect food group, and I will likely continue to pay a ridiculous $4 per box to make myself feel like I'm "mature" and "healthy" by eating something with "Berries" in the title.  I guess the dorky food-scientist kid is having the last (maniacal) laugh on me.

Well that'll teach that cushion to mouth off.....

So this is what greeted me when I got home from work today.  And by "greeted" I mean "this is what made me scream like a banshee, causing the idiot dogs to go running for cover".  Seems that if one takes off a cushion cover to wash it, and ones dogs MAY just deem the underlying cushion as a Defcon 3 threat, and attempt to dismantle the situation.  Either that or the Cat in the Hat came to play on this rainy day, but I got home  riiiiiight before he could help the dogs clean up his naughty cat mess.  Either way, I guess I'm glad it was JUST the pillow and not the deck they destroyed.  (Or the Cat in the Hat, for that matter.  Don't think I'd want the legal ramifications of having to explain that one to the Geisel foundation.)