Don't Tell My House, My Broken, Broken House.

I can't look, either.

I was going to post pictures today of the finished lower level.

That's right. I had intended to post those, because- finally- the downstairs rooms, bathroom, and laundry room were one thousand and two percent completed.

However.

Being as today is the six week anniversary of the day that the sewer pipe collapsed/the bottom half of the house got torn down to the studs, you know that this project ain't going down without a fight.

We had overcome the nearconstantjackhammering. The sticky concrete dust that caused me to scrub like Lady MacBeth. The staggering crush of people stomping through the house from 7am to 7pm; plumbers, contractors, foremen, insurance agents, dudes walking in just to use the phone- I have no idea who all of those people were.

But we persevered.

And when the initial go 'round at fixing the sewer pipe went [surprisingly] bust, we tolerated the extra weeks being tacked onto the project. Even when the upstairs [completely unrelated] bathroom went kaput, we laughed. (Sorta.) Sure, I sobbed when the washing machine exploded straight up to the newly painted ceiling, but I don't think anyone could've blamed me for that one.

Six weeks of screaming children, filthy everything, displaced possessions, and an impressively delayed manuscript failed to break me.

But the other day? When the walls were freshly painted, the baseboards neatly tacked into place, and the bathroom furnishings gleaming like a spa? When, just as the workers were about to finish up for the day, for the week, for the ever- when they cut into our security system line and caused it to go into panic mode?

I felt myself crumble just the teensiest bit.

So then the ADT guy showed up and was all like- Yep, this sure is a line that's been cut. But he fixed it. No problem.

But then he went home. And so did the workers. And the security system started to fritz out again. No one was sure what it was, but everyone agreed on one thing: the baseboards needed to be taken down again. Not a huge deal, especially since it had also been recently discovered that the cable line, also secured under its own honking baseboard, WAS ALSO FAILING TO WORK.

I am not ashamed in the least to admit that, while watching our contractor tear baseboards off of the wall again, I cried like a little girl not allowed on the ride.

The scriiiitching thwack of each panel tearing off a little of the blue Durarock underneath it, hearing each baseboard clatter onto the recently cleaned and cleared tile floor...it was all just a little too much.

I had been teased with the end. But I am a fool. For there is no end.

And when they discovered the problem, a nail through the center of the wire (of course!), I wasn't surprised.

I asked for a turn with the nail gun, but I wasn't surprised.

Happy Gals, A Melty Car, And A Double Stroller.

There are so many good pix from Memorial Day weekend that need their day in the sun. (The ridiculously hot sun.) Here are a few more:

That's rather warm for May.

Random passersby wondered why I was snorting with laughter.

Beach fail= backyard win.

It wouldn't be a weekend without a pic of smiling Zuzu.

V takes a break from helping us unpack the new rooms to make a pal.

Tuesday Is No Longer The Weekend.

I am failing to understand why she is no longer in Chicago.

Please pardon the fact that I did not post yesterday morning: I was having way too much of a weekend to be bothered with things like computers (and showers).

My college bestie came to visit, and we proceeded to engage in activities that our 19 year-old selves would've popped eyeballs over. For instance, pushing a double stroller through a tree-lined neighborhood. Convincing a toddler to finish her corndog. Asking (for the thousandth time) if anyone needs to use the potty.

Maybe that last one isn't so different.

A baby's hours are not unlike a collegiate's.

We also did some very grownup things, like getting drinks at The Violet Hour. And falling asleep on the couch in front of a movie.

And thanks to that same bestie, Peej and I were able to go out for an anniversary dinner at Schwa (because my husband transcends limitations like Impossible To Get Reservations At and Volatile Chef Who Sometimes Decides Not To Open Said Restaurant)- but that stellar dinner is another post in the making. And everyone already knows how much I adore my supra-cool husband.

And even though we utterly failed at finding beach parking (but witnessed the absolute worst of humanity in the form of a U-turn cutoff, stolen parking spot, and subsequent terrible behavior in front of their own kids), we still enjoyed the gorgeously hot weather and exceptional company.

Only Auntie Kivvy will do.

So many, many thanks to the men and women who gave their lives to provide not only a long weekend's break but to keep our country safe. Which frees me up to write about completely inconsequential things like what I ate for my nine course meal. (Black truffles.)

As Nora said- Oh, thank you soldiers.

While she devoured a rapidly melting cup of ice cream.

But it was from the heart.

Grateful. And full of sugar.

The Full Catastrophe! The Nields!

Katryna and Nerissa Nields have come out with a new album. For anyone who a) grew up in Western Massachusetts or b) loves good folk music, this is terribly exciting.

I fall into both of these categories.

The Nields were big on the coffeehouse/Lilith Fair circuit when I was an impressionable high-schooler and, now that I'm a impressionable mother of two, they've come out with The Full Catastrophe, their ode to parenthood, marriage, and how good life continues to be.

At first listen, I was pleasantly surprised to find that, while some of the songs were about children, they weren't necessarily for children. (Family-friendly is terrific. But I have a shockingly low tolerance for elephants stomping about. For example.)

Certain tracks jumped out at me; Back At The Fruit Tree, a bouncy ditty about how needs and priorities change once kiddos enter the picture. The Creek's Gonna Rise, a gorgeous song about the inevitability of time. And I Choose This Era, a sweet track about wanting to be right where you are.

The Full Catastrophe's themes of how crazy and exhausting and wonderful this phase of life is makes for a fun listen. And, much like having a sleepy-eyed toddler crawl into your bed at 6am, it's welcomed with a knowing smile.

Want to win your own copy of The Full Catastrophe? Of course you do.

Here's how:
-Comment here. Tell me about your love of good music. Or just say hi. (Worth one entry!)
-Tweet about this giveaway and link back here- but make sure to come back and lemme know you did so! (Worth TWO entries!)
-"Like" Lollygag Blog on Facebook or post about the giveaway on Facebook- but, again, make sure to let me know! (Worth TWO entries!)

I'll choose a winner (with the help of our good friend The Randomizer) on next Friday, June 1st. So, go! Go tell your friends!

I'll wait right here. I've got some good music to keep me company.

In Dog Years It's A Lot Longer.

We look so, so awesome in this picture.

To my darling, patient, better-than-I-sometimes-deserve but always-exactly-what-I-need husband on our fourth anniversary...

Nothing has changed yet everything has changed and I wouldn't change a thing. (Except for maybe one or two teensy things regarding our homestead.) But let's review those crazy ol' vows, shall we?

When I said "for better," I was most likely talking about Sunday mornings with our daughters, the paper, a questionable amount of bacon, and one of your stellar mixes playing on the stereo.

When I said "for worse," I might have been imagining that time when the lower level of our house gave up and disintegrated. (Was there a "for louder" part of our vows, too? Because that may be a three-way tie between the jackhammering of said house, the drilling of samesuch, and my entirely-too-related Ugly Crying on your shoulder.)

When I said "for richer-" well, that part hasn't exactly showered down on us yet, but we do lead a pretty darned fancy lifestyle (due almost completely to your obsessive love of coupons, Groupons, and Craigslist).

When I said "for poorer," I had no idea that I'd someday decide to send our kids to trade school. (Because seriously if an in-family plumber wouldn't have come in handy these past five weeks.)

When I said "in sickness," I'm pretty sure I was preparing for that cold you had this past winter. Good God, did I want to smother you with a pillow. (But I didn't. And I'm glad for it.)

When I said "in health," I couldn't possibly have known that I'd get that same cold one week later. (Thanks for not smothering me.)

There's still no one else with whom I'd rather tend a feverish child at 3am, argue over the necessity of antique store "treasures," and watch old movies while consuming enormous vats of your secret recipe popcorn.

Here's to the next four (times four times four).

And even though we're not in Virgin Gorda this May, getting to wake up next to you (and the girls and the cats) in Chicago each morning still seems like I hit the marriage jackpot.

Which may or may not actually be a thing.

But which I wholeheartedly mean, nonetheless.

(Happy anniversary.)

It's The Little Things.

As we close out week five of "The Project," it's pictures like this that keep me going:

Yuv.

This one doesn't hurt, either:

90% finished laundry room. (Yuv.)

Keely Rants At Her Kid's Clothing.

Resting up.

So, Nora has this shirt. It's a hand-me-down, as we're lucky enough to have most of her clothing be. It's short-sleeved, and features gold scrolling writing that spells out:

"Where's My Prince Charming?"

And for some reason (that I couldn't put my finger upon until today) this passively phrased tee bothered me. Now, don't get me wrong. I love princes and princesses. Dollhouses. Fairies n' mermaids n' trolls n' dressing up. I love makeup and crowns. Disney movies. Happily ever afters.

But now I've realized why it bothers me. (And I'll address my answer directly to my daughters):

1. Nora, Susannah, listen up. You don't necessarily need someone (prince, charming, or otherwise) to come get you and complete your story. There are many, many adventures out there. On some, you'll want companionship. On others, you might want to go it alone. That's totally great, too. (As long as you check in with your mother.)

2. In the short time that I've known both of you, it's left very little doubt in my mind that you'll never really need to ask that scrolled question aloud.

3. And finally, if and when you decide that you do need a Prince Charming (or Princess Charmingette, it really makes no difference to your Dad and me as long as this Royal treats you with respect and makes you wildly happy- and coming from money wouldn't hurt our feelings, either)...if and when this becomes a necessity...don't just sit around waiting for him to come fetch you.

Go find him yourself.

Full Disclosure: I Am Not A Contractor.

I'm with you, kid.

There are many things that I just know:
-The vocal lineup of most classic rock bands since 1972.
-An innate awareness of when a ladybug sticker is being placed on an item of good furniture.
-How to fall asleep on any surface despite exterior influences.

And then there are things for which I fall woefully short:
-Being able to relax/move on with my life when things are out of order.
-Apologizing first.
-And anything having to do with the putting-back-together of my house.

That last one has become painfully clear during this past month. I have been asked- nay, expected to answer questions [correctly] about the how/when/why of my home's implosion. Why was this house built on a cesspool? (Cheaper real estate.) Where's the shut off valve for the mitochondrial rotator cuff? (That isn't a thing.) Does this pipe run up to the third floor/were you insane for buying a short sale? (Yup.)

And I kept it together (kinda) for the first few weeks. But now we're in the home[ish] stretch. And there are choices to be made. Shower tile. Floor tile. Faucets- with correct backings. (Did you know that they let you buy incorrect backings? They totally do.) A sink. Laundry room tile. Lighting that works with the wall spacing. A mirror that's wide enough for the vanity- but not that wide. (That's too wide.) Paint paint paint paint paint.

I thought I'd be good at this. I am not. We fell in love with the first sink/vanity we found. (In LOVE, I tell you!) But then it went out of stock. So we ordered the bigger size. But it was waaaay too big. So we found one that was- nice. It would do. Then I chose some backsplash tile that was clearly the best tile ever: tan and cream and white glass bubbles on a neutral background. But (as P.J. can probably tell you), I have expensive taste. That shower would end up being more expensive than my wedding gown. (By about fifty bucks.) So I decided on a mosaic glass in Moroccan colors. Which was the wrong absorbency level for a shower. (Would be great in a kitchen, I was told. Sadly/happily, we are not gutting the kitchen just yet.) I picked a third tile in brown glass- which, again, was not the right level of water resistance. (Clearly, I was meant for designing kitchens.) I finally ended up at a tile warehouse one night, pointing at a floor display and asking if that one would work. (It wouldn't. But they could find something close.) And that what's being installed today. The "close" one that "would work." (It'll be lovely.)

Picking out tile that would work a) in a family room, b) over radiant heating, and c) wouldn't cost more than my college education was next. We chose wood-grain tiles made of recycled materials and porcelain that would look kind of unassuming yet warm. (I should write ad copy.) There was a pricing war between our contractors and the flooring guys- of which there were no survivors. (The flooring guys didn't seem too interested in my business, however, as they actually shut the lights off on me and almost locked me in. "Oh hey- we didn't see you in our store for the last forty-five minutes.) I'm pretty sure it was a front for something illegal. A front with really nice flooring options, but still. The color and width of my choice changed about five times- and not because I had any sort of crazy stake in it. I originally chose teak. But that one "wouldn't work." So oak was installed yesterday. (It'll be lovely.)

I had to choose how I wanted the tiles spaced. ("Like...that.Yes. That's how I'd like it. Leave them there. Now everyone go home.") "Is 3/16th of an inch okay between planks?" ("For sure. That's how I always do it, anyway.") "Which grout would work- this one or this one?" ("Whichever grout will make me the least aware that I'm looking at grout. Sure. That one. I simply love it.")

Then I got a call last night telling me that the grout I wanted wasn't going to work. Now, there are many things that "I want," but grout doesn't even crack the top twenty. So we went with the other one.

The paint colors I had chosen were no longer available. The floor isn't level enough for these types of planks. You shouldn't be wearing patterned pants with those hips.

It feels like every single tiny detail that I have to decide upon is inevitably the wrong one. Every hardware and decorating choice I've made in the past few weeks has inevitably been scrapped. Because here's the thing: I have no idea what I'm doing.

It's like I'm expected to solve an Encyclopedia Brown mystery without knowing how many Tigers were actually at the baseball game. I simply don't have all of the information.

But it'll be okay. Eventually everything will be done and everyone will be out of our house. The girls will regain another level of the home in which to fling their toys and I'll be able to flop onto pleasantly grouted tiles while waiting for the third load of laundry to cycle through. Lights will turn off and on, painted walls won't show a trace of uneven plaster, and there won't be even a whiff of sewer gas anywhere on the premises.

It'll be lovely.

Wynken And Blynken And Nod.

Even when things get awful and messy and smelly and chaotic, it never fails to amaze me that the simple act of watching these two dynamos nap can make everything seem a teensy bit sweeter.

(Still messy. Just nicer to look at.)

Broken House Still Broken.

See? The crumbling stoop loves me!

I was extremely ready for the weekend. This is largely in part because I love weekends, but even more largely in part (how many parts am I allowed?) because the house broke even further on Thursday night.

P.J., having ventured downstairs after work to, you know, inspect the demolition team's work- because boys simply HAVE to poke the drywall, ask about the coils, and guess how many RBIs it gets. (I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore.) I'm glad he did, however, since he found that the newly exposed area behind the sink and toilet was experiencing- what we call in the business- A LEAK. From the ceiling. That's right, a leak was coming from the bathroom directly on top of the broken bathroom. An area which (aside from a couple weeks prior's unsecured bathroom sink) was generally a top notch room in our house. In fact, it was the newest. Which, sadly, was a mammoth selling point back in '09. ("A new bathroom? What, is this the Hilton?")

Also, it was discovered that the upstairs bath had been placed in the floor by cutting through support beams. (I cannot even expand upon this further, it hurts my face too much.)

So, we called the plumbers back. (At this point, I'm pretty sure they're just living in our alley waiting for the bat signal to come back and fix our place. The gushing water symbol? Perhaps a teardrop?) They arrived the next morning- just as our renovation team showed up to finish up the bathroom's walls. (Definitely a teardrop.) And, being Contractor Guys, they disagreed on certain issues with each others' work. The tile, drywall, and electrical guys tried to work around the plumbers as they went up and down all three levels, flushing toilets, filling and draining sinks, and running showers- all to find out which thing had most recently failed us.

On a positive note, the contractors finally found some common ground. The water continuing to spill from the upstairs was pinpointed to the main floor toilet, eliciting a unanimous- "That ain't good!"

One of our plumbers lifted the toilet to find that it was never secured to anything, ever. It might as well have been a bathroom chair. No bolts. In fact, the reason for the leak was because the toilet had been placed at a slight angle ON TOP OF THE OLD TILE FLOOR. The lower level's jackhammering had cracked the tenuous wax seal and whoosh, Leak City. The previous owners hadn't felt like ripping up the floor, you see, and had only made minor attempts to cut the new tile around the askew toilet. Under the toilet was a substance that we're gonna go ahead and call mud. And water was everywhere. There was a risk of dry rot on these floors, as this problem had apparently been going on for awhile.

"You might have to take this bathroom down to the studs, too," we were informed. "Don't use this bathroom for 24 hours while it dries out." (So that's two bathrooms down. We are very quickly running out of real estate in this place.)

While this was happening, I was fielding questions from the downstairs crew (and running outside to circumvent the plastic sheeting still on the stairwell), and sprinting back up to point out things at the request of the plumbers. While carrying Nora and Susannah. Because it was quickly becoming another riddle of whom to carry on each trip; the chicken, the wolf, or the bag of grain. (Still with me?)

There were easily fifteen people in the house. Jackhammering and chiseling from the downstairs, thunking and clanking from the upstairs (and yells to each other along the way: "Still got water coming down?" "Oh yeah!") And a thoroughly freaked out Nora- who responded by "accidentally" head-butting Zuzu with the full force of her body. And that resulted in tears from just about everybody.

Nora eventually crumpled to the couch with a wailed "There are too many people SEEING me right now!" Which I totally sympathized with, but which didn't quite rank as high as another failing level of our home or her baby sister's potential concussion.

Anyway. That day eventually ended. And I still consider it a check in the positive category for a few simple reasons:
-Our general contractor goes above and beyond. (And has not yet blocked my phone number.)
-Our plumbers have stopped charging us for "minor" repairs to our house. Pity? Whatever.
-My mother-in-law sent stargazer lilies and roses, with a [hilariously misinterpreted] note hoping that "the proyeet" was going well.
-My mother is on speed dial- and also has yet to block my phone number.
-And, on a walk that night, we let Nora "convince" us to stop at the ice cream truck.

This weekend was also an A plus: cards and photographs and brunch and pre-prepared coffee and two(!) naps and more walks and even a few moments where we all forgot that we lived in a funhouse. It was reaffirmed that the world's most perfect gift is a handmade card from one's offspring. Always thought my folks were just being kind on that one. But nope- having a hand-scrawled smiley face (with legs!) on a card more than makes all this stuff worth it.

And the naps. The naps are good, too.

The Dirtying Machine.

I am airing my dirty laundry.

Right now, an entire floor of stuff has been absorbed by the other parts of the house. Like a sponge. Like a big, bloated, no-more-room-for-knick-knacks sponge. 

And by "knick knacks," I mean wool coats. Books n' books n' books n' books. Upended tables. At least two cats.

We're like the beginning of a Hoarders episode- with no hope for an hour-long resolution. 

The guys currently digging up the lower level were sweet enough to warn me that there might be dust. And a lot of noise. Which is just adorable. 

And in We've Really Angered This House news...

We've really angered this house. Part 17:

The other day, feeling way too confident about my abilities to keep this house running smoothly and (relatively) cleanly, I decided to do a load of laundry. The contractors had worked a half day and the afternoon was looking open. After I cleaned some clothes, I figured I'd take the girls to the actual out-of-doors when they woke up from their naps. I was thrilled by the prospect of potential freedom. 

While the washing machine was starting its cycle, I began the process of re-packing and moving stuff from floor to floor for phase 2 of the demolition. After about ten minutes, however, I heard...something. 

It sounded like a geyser. And being that my home is not currently on the register of any sort of national wonder (yet), I fervently hoped that what I was hearing was not a geyser.

As I turned the corner into the laundry room, I sorrowfully discovered that- yes- it was a geyser. Water and lint and mud shot straight from the washer, splashing the ceiling and shelves and floor. And me. Especially me. 

I am totally embarrassed to say that I stood there for fifteen seconds, just wondering what the heck to do. Count fifteen seconds in your head. That's a stupidly long time for inaction. Finally I ran into the melee and popped the washer button out. It stopped, and for a second all I could hear was the drip drip drip of pooling water and failed dreams.

Once I felt brave enough to open the lid, I discovered what had happened- sorta. The blanket which had, only the day before, been sequestering one floor from the concrete dust and sewer gas of the lower level, had completely disintegrated in the wash. Like, down to its atoms. I have no idea how this happened, since (generally) blankets don't just explode. However, since it did happen, it meant waaaay more work for that afternoon.

There was the half hour of fishing out fistfuls of gritty lint from within the murky washer in order to properly drain the machine. Same goes for the utility sink, into which the lint-laden hose had been attempting to spill. Then there was the hour long session of hand-washing each item of clothing to remove the lint and gritty residue (which, as it turns out, was the inner layer of the blanket) that was already staining the clothes- most of them Susannah's. 

It was an ugly, pathetic, process- which may not have resulted in actually clean clothing. During this time I had a [momentary] mammoth snap with reality, whereupon I began to yell at the house.

I yelled at the potential ghost.

I berated the previous owners. 

I [loudly] assured everyone involved that I was a good person and I was trying to treat this &$#@* house with respect and my baby kid did NOT deserve pajamas covered with mud and broken blanket.

I like to think that the house and I came to an understanding. 

As in- I understand that this house has really been a jerk to me and it understands that (being a house), it holds no actual responsibility for my happiness. 

It's a start.

Looks clean enough to me!

Reminiscing This And That.

I was going to post more pix of the whole-house carnage, but decided on this instead. I present to you:

[Part Of] "Oodelally," Sung By A Slightly Crabby Swedish Chef.

Forget The Girls- I'M Going To Trade School.

ALL the furniture must be moved. All.

Sometimes I feel like I'm hosting a contractor convention- and I'm the keynote speaker as well as the janitor.

On Friday afternoon, we had our heating and cooling guys out yet again. "But Keely," you ask. "Didn't you just pay close to 4k for an a brand new a/c system?" Yup. Yes, we did. "And Keely," you insist. "Didn't they leave the job with only one floor cooled, completely undermining the crux of the project, which was to get non-polluted air into your infant's room, the one on the first floor?" Yes, but we'll leave that alone for now.

Last week we had one night that was in the upper 80s. And, being that the two larger bedrooms are in what is essentially a converted attic, 'twas boiling. We were excited(ish) to use our new a/c. And that jubilation lasted until hour six of having the system on. Because, even after six hours of "cooling," the thermostat read 86 degrees.

THAT'S NOT RIGHT, we said to ourselves. WE'VE SPENT WAAAAAY TOO MUCH MONEY FOR 86 DEGREES. 

So our guys came out. And found that the compressor was completely devoid of freon. Because there was a leak somewhere in the 3-week old system. AND THAT'S NOT GOOD.

It was found within an hour and easily [?] patched. The guy was slightly shocked at how sloppy one of the connectors was. I wasn't. If you'll recall, the a/c guy left our home a few weeks ago after telling me how much he hated our house. (I mean, I hate our house, too, but I rarely let it affect the job.)

And lest you think that, just because the plumbers have finished their two-week downstairs pilgrimage, the work is DONE...oh no. Because yesterday, right around the time we were playing Whole House Jenga in preparation of the renovation, we discovered a leak. In the tub. You know, the tub that wasn't part of this demolition? And in the under-stair crawlspace (where we were attempting to Tetris some more storage boxes), we found that the newly dug and re-cemented concrete was wet. Whether from the extreme rain yesterday or someone's tears, I cared not. Because it meant that the plumbers had to come back today. The day that the renovators were to have started.

There's really only one explanation: Ghosts.

Back when I was hugely pregnant with Nora and we were "fixing up" this place (hahahahahaha), I could swear that I felt someone behind me all the time. Then it stopped. Or maybe I was too tired with a newborn to care if someone was stomping about upstairs. But now? Maybe the previous owner is pissed that we're digging up his house. Or perhaps he's the one causing the splodey-ness.

It's honestly the only rational cause for this ruckus.

Have you ever had ghosts/a slum for a house? Do you have a drink for me? Doesn't having these questions in bold remind you of Encyclopedia Brown endings? Comment below. 

Or walk over with a drink. I'm not picky. (Clearly.)

Keely Jinxes Herself Into Oblivion.

That frog takes up so much real estate.

Things are starting to look up. (And not just because we're crammed into the top floor of our house.)

Yesterday I featured a [poorly lit] photo array of my new window seat. It's simply glorious. It marks one of the few occasions where we've added something to this home because it would look nice or because it is time to no longer look like a crack den. (More like a crack palace!)

So often we're renovating and fixing the house because of "structural issues" or "safety reasons."

But on Tuesday? We hired people to come and rip out the front of our house (not to be confused with the people we've hired to come and rip out the downstairs of our house) because we've [I've] decided it was high time to have something pretty happen here. Granted, we [I] made this decision well before SewageGate 2012...but since we had already paid the deposit, new window it is!

There were a few dark moments on Tuesday, however. For starters, since the plumbers had taped plastic sheeting up the stairwell from the lower level (and over the side door), and since the window guys had done the same to the front door and living room- we were trapped inside a plastic rectangle.

I do not, as a rule, thrive under conditions best described as Outbreak-esque.

The jackhammering and drilling coming from ALL SIDES was a bit...much. Susannah's cheeks, yet again, threatened to vibrate off of her face. Nora, at one point, screamed until she was purple- and I couldn't even hear her.

And, at one point, the lower level's plastic sheeting slipped- and in an instant, the entirety of the main floor was coated in a thick layer of concrete dust. The biggest casualty was the enormous vat of stewed pears and apples that I had cooked for Suzy's consumption this week. (Now she may actually have consumption. Awesome.)

But- and this cannot be stated enough- THE WINDOW IS AWESOME.

This is the window where I (miraculously showered and all) shall sit and read and have a drink and take a nap and not smell sewage and not have to explain- yet again- that the men were not done jackhammering.

Because they will be done. The jackhammering has to stop. (After awhile it's just, like, dirt. Right?) And when this noise and mayhem and filth ceases...I will be on my window seat.

That is, if I can convince Nora to lemme have a turn.

Something Actually Works!

Please pardon the complete and utter lack of artistry in these photos- they're too dark, and they barely show what I'm trying to convey. BUT. Here's the thing. After weeks of things falling down, we have something new. Something awesome. And it's a bay window with a wide seat board. 

And it is good.

Old window in dim light. Note: janky/creaky wooden windows,
various scratches, three layers of ill-placed caulking.

NEW window in dim lighting. Note: HOW AWESOME IT IS.

Old front of house. Notice: good God, remember when that top window
 was shot out? We bought a house that had been SHOT AT?

New bay window. Also, no more shot-out window.
(And who's that mini person in two of these pix?)