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!

Duct Tape House, Part- Oh, I Give Up.

I'd leave, if my shoes weren't filled with Little People.

Remember how, way back on Monday, I realized that I had taunted fate by posting about the hilarity of the previous Thursday's bodily fluid debacle? Well, I got my comeuppance once again by continuing to post about said fluids- this time in the form of a sewer explosion.

And I'm going to do it again, simply by referencing last Monday's travails. I'm totally like a kid who keeps pushing an irate parent into more and more groundings.

"Wanna make it two weeks?"

"Great."

"Fine, three weeks."

"Terrific."

The plumbers came early yesterday morning to check their work- which, up to this point, had consisted of fixing numerous pipes, filling in a cesspool, and pouring concrete all over the lower level of our house. Basically, today they were going to run a smoke test and make sure that no smoke escaped into our home- meaning, of course, that our pipes possessed zero holes from which smoke could travel.

When they arrived, we greeted them with some unfortunate news. From the time they left the night before until that a.m., we had run the dishwasher and done a few loads of laundry, and a horrific smell not unlike rotten eggs being shoved into your nostrils was filling the entirety of the house. That's right, whereupon before any of this work had been done the smell had been confined to the lower level, now it was permeating the entire abode.

The plumbers were pretty sure what the smoke test was gonna show them. And they were right! Since the four major gaps in the pipes had been fixed, that freed up the rest of the pinprick holes in the pipes to step it up and truly shine. (In the form of breaking open completely.)

I asked one of the plumbers if it was the worst he'd ever seen.

"No way," he said. "Top three, though. Definitely. God, this is bad."

And the insurance check which we had oh-so-recently been [tentatively] approved for? That whole "complete renovation of a bathroom" and "majority of the plumbing work" check? Yeah, that's getting scrapped for now, as we all recalculate how much it'll cost to take the bathroom down to the studs, re-line the entirety of the sewer pipeline, and gut the majority of the lower level's flooring and walls.

Nora saw me cry. The plumber saw me cry. Heck, the guy driving the Speedy Express van and dropping off a package from Amazon.com saw me cry.

Did I mention that we have guests coming this afternoon and staying until Monday?

Before the plumbers left yesterday, they headed into our main floor bathroom for a quick de-clogging of the sink- something which was "a cinch" to do (and something which I'm pretty sure they're no longer charging us for at this point). And there was a clog, all right, but the majority of the problem likely stemmed from the fact that the pipe leading from the sink HAD NEVER BEEN GLUED INTO THE DAMN WALL. Just hanging out. A free agent, if you will. So they glued a new one into place, since- hadn't you guessed?- the previously unglued one had also completely rotted out.

The plumbers joked that they'd have to rip out the wall and see about all of these pipes. Ha HA. Plumbers are hilarious.

And last night was spent cleaning literally inches of concrete dust off of things on every floor. Thick, sticky debris required multiple dustings and even more go-rounds with the mop. And it's still filthy. And really, really smelly.

P.J. saw me cry. The cats saw me cry. My woefully low bottle of Peppermint Schnapps saw me cry.

A completely hypothetical question to all homeowners: Was there a point in your homeownership where you realized that you would never recoup your money spent? Was it within the first three years?

Just asking.

Indoor Air Is Highly Overrated.

"This house is made of Scotch tape and failed dreams."
"I know."

This coming July, we'll have lived in this house for three years. Three years. During that time, we've ripped off a roof, dragged in appliances, patched and painted and edged and secured, replaced windows (and replaced windows and replaced windows), had the electrical system rewired, wiped out mold (and redid drywall and painted and edged and secured), made it clear that rats are NOT WELCOME, and finished a host of other things that I've most likely blocked out due to post traumatic stress.

We also had a kid. And then another kid.

For the past few months, Peej and I have been deciding how to next fix this house with the [frighteningly small] amount of money we've socked away into our Good Lord, This House fund. Excitingly enough, we realized that we could maybe afford the down payments on something cosmetic or purely awesome. Like air conditioning for the whole house.

This impending luxury may have been etched into P.J.'s mind since the previous summer when, hugely pregnant with Susannah, he (repeatedly) found me hunched over our window unit and weeping fat, hot, Ugly Tears.

We had multiple contractors come out and quote the job, but we went with the company that promised exactly the results that we wanted, NO PROBLEM. I had no time for the menfolk who suggested that perhaps our Wikki Stix abode wouldn't be able to support the type of system we wanted. Wall-mounted units? Do we look like a Motel 6? (Don't answer that.)

So they came on Thursday with a crew of four and proceeded to open up the completely access-free crawlspace above the third floor bedrooms. ("To take a look-see!") Turns out, there was no room for the necessary vents to supply air down to Zuzu's room and that whole floor. There was barely room for the haphazard piping and shenanigans going on up there in the first place. So, the upstairs bedrooms could get a/c, but no dice for poor Baby Girl. Which, annoyingly enough, had been the entire impetus for this project (my Ugly Tears notwithstanding)- actual air in the infant's bedroom. As it stands, Susannah's window opens out into the shared walkway between our home and the neighbor's 5-flat, which serves as a conduit for cheap cigarillo smoke and a melange of vomit and stale urine. (All three are produced by the same neighbor, isn't that magical?) Thusly, GIRL NEEDS AIR. (Also, aren't you dying to come stay at our house, now?)

It took until 10pm that night for the crew to secure some semblance of forced air through our new furnace- did I mention that we had to buy a new furnace?- at which point the foreman announced that he kinda hated our house. "I mean, you guys are cool, but...if I never see this house again, it'll be too soon." Mazel tov! Can I offer you some more warm bottled water?

And I'm currently awaiting quotes/grand apologetic gestures of price-slashing to finish the job. P.J. and I had the [genius] idea to cut a fireman's pole area into the master bedroom, thus getting the air into the baby's room, AND facilitating easier early morning Suzy-gettin'.

But apparently that's not a real thing.

Whatever, I've never let that stop me in the past. After all, we've lived in this make-believe house for three years, haven't we?

I Hate To Leave You But I Really Must Say...

For the first time in almost ten years, I am not a nanny.

For the first time in over eight years, I'm not Julia and Lily's nanny.

And it's odd. Because it was more than a job- it was a welcomed lifestyle shift and endless sparks of creativity for writing and a flower [bubble] girl and a duo of best friends for my daughter and a family.

It all started with an infant named Julia and an endless flight delay during an East Coast summer storm. And a set of young parents all-too-willing to let an eager (and out of work) nanny hold their strawberry blonde baby gal. And a job interview the next afternoon, once they all realized they lived mere 'hoods from each other. And a hiring before the 23 year-old left their lovely home. Both sets of grandparents (and aunts and uncles and cousins) made the nanny feel like just another [valued] member of the family.

Before long, the little gal became an integral part of the nanny's weekly routine- and all of her best stories. Heck, even her friends' best stories. (There are very few friends from that time period without their own tales of Snow Cones or Smelling Candles At Pier 1.)

The little girl eventually started pre-school, but the parents were sweet enough to have another child to keep the nanny fully employed. (I'm sure there were other reasons as well, but it was still an awfully nice thing to do.) So along came Baby Lily, and things became twice as nice with The Big Girl and The Little Girl.

And when the nanny became engaged, the whole family celebrated with dinners out and copious wedding planning with The Big Girl whom, obviously, was a member of the wedding. The Little Girl celebrated in her own way.

And just to make things fun, the nanny decided to have her own little girl to add to the mix. The fam put out a portable crib in a guest room and stocked the house with baby necessities- because The Nanny not being their nanny was never a valid option. So then there was The Biggie, The Middle, and The Little Little. And shockingly, things were still seamlessly great. There were collages and day trips and story-writin' and incredible amounts of snacks (most of them corn dogs and/or Pink Frosters.)

But now there's a Big Move to London. And The Nanny and her kid[s] can't go. The Middle and The Little Little don't fully understand that there won't be afternoon-long Every Toy In The Room Fests punctuated by hiccup-inducing belly laughs. The Biggie and The Nanny, however, are all too aware that their projects will now have to be done long distance. But there's Skype. And phone calls and texts and picture messages and letters and carrier pigeons and good ol' fashioned visiting. And it'll be okay, because family is family even across oceans.

And I miss them already.

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.