There are few things that truly numb me, but this is the one topic that does. I have never been able to talk about it other than to say "my house is a hell hole". In my mind, there aren't words for it, but tonight I am going to give it a spin.
(The movie "The Money Pit" comes to mind.)
You have NO idea.
It all began about 5.5 years ago when the ex and I were bullied into "renting with option" said hell hole from the ex's parents. They bought it about 15 years ago quite cheaply to fix up and resell. Well, it was on the market for years without so much as a glance...and they had a couple other houses in their name, so this wasn't exactly a priority to them.
I'm betting I know why.
This house was a shell the day we moved into it, having been gutted years prior, and basically redesigned. They lived in it "as is", and worked on it maybe once or twice in all those years, and actually what it resembled was the local dump. The walls were damaged drywall, with layers and layers of wallpaper that "someone" began stripping, and then just walked away. In some rooms, it was new drywall that "someone" apparently forgot to mud, sand, and paint or paper. The floors, with the exception of three rooms, were subfloor only. Then his dad became inspired and spent a ton of money on some very beautiful hardwood floors for the DR and foyer, and down the hall. But guess what? He never sealed the beautiful and extremely expensive floors, and they are now about as appealing as a limp noodle.
There is no trim work (moulding) anywhere, and I gotta tell you, its a bitch painting framework that just ends and leaves you hanging there. I also gotta tell you that it ain't the most brilliant move one can make to take a power sander to your walls in an effort to sand off joint compound.
The bathroom is, oh hell, I don't know if I can do this....
The bathroom is my nightmare. It used to be a kitchen, but then became a combination bath/laundry room. Being that it was once a kitchen, it's pretty large. Right up in front of the sink was this floor to ceiling shelving with no doors or cabinets, and this is where they stored all their personal hygiene items, and it was such an unsightly, ill placed mess that it was number one on the "honey do" list, above all else, such as the foundation that was never enclosed, and the fact that the house was painted 2 different shades of yellow. This is because the ex, just like his parents, started painting it, and half way through, walked away and never picked up that roller again. 5.5 years later, the ladder still stands propped against the house.
I live in a half painted house.
So anyway, down comes the big shelving unit, I rip the laundry cabinets right off the wall in a hormonal fit, and determine that I will have this beautiful, large and luxurious bathroom, one rivaling anything you've seen on HGTV.
But no. Due to the shelving being removed, there is this long strip down the floor in which there is just subfloor, but since the rest of the bathroom is subfloor too, I thought "hey, something actually matches!". Well no, thats not quite accurate, there is a bit of yellowed kitchen linoleum that ofcourse someone decided they'd finish yanking up "another day", with yellow paint spilled all over it that was never cleaned up, but manages to match somehow.
The walls are a lovely mixture of gray primer, and yellow paint that *I* never finished painting. Can you imagine?
There are huge holes in the walls that seem to go into hidden rooms, as I can see nothing in there when I peer in, and no amount of mud and drywall is gonna fix those puppies. (I've often wondered if duct tape...oh, never mind.)
Now, as if all this isn't enough, when your eyes manage to travel up to the ceiling, you can't help but notice all the lovely popcorn spray on stuff that I am absolutely conviced at one time was quite stunning...but now it hangs in long strips, threatening to cover me in popcorn dust yet another time. I figure at this rate, it will all be gone by the year 2005, and "someone" will be able to apply a new layer.
But its OK...really. This, believe it or not, is not what is distressing me. I worked myself silly for about the first three years, so much so that the ex was lovingly referred to at work as "Mrs. Vila". I took down walls, put them back up, learned to apply wallpaper all by myself, and once I got used to it entangling me and sticking to my clothes instead of the wall, it went OK. I learned that when the damn joint compound won't sand off within 4 hours of trying, the only way out is to apply a ton of joint compound and make it look like it was intended to be a "faux texture" and that most will accept this.
I learned that one should never leave the windows open when attempting to learn to use power tools, especially when one uses colorful language, as it tends to attract the attention of the neighbors. I have yet to determine where I stand with them....the looks they give me aren't easily read.
But then the curse began. First and foremost, I think I have some kind of electrical spirit that likes to mess with me. I must blow a fuse atleast 3 times a week. I cannot dry clothes and dry my hair at the same time. I cannot vacuum and dry clothes at the same time. I cannot use the space heater with ANYTHING ELSE ON, (My furnace works when it wants to work, though the thermometer gauge on it no longer moves, so I'm thinking maybe it thinks its broke, therefore it IS broke???) and several times a day, everything will flicker on and off. It really is a mental exercise to determine what I can do electrically, before I do it. But its OK, so much is broken now that my choices have narrowed considerably.
Oh, and on the subject of my dryer (which ofcourse is STILL in my large, luxurious bathroom) well, do you think its supposed to make the clothes smoke? Even when I set it on "no heat", in about 35 minutes, there is a smoky smell, and sure enough, when I open the door, smoke comes out.
On the ever growing list of broken items are the following:
The dishwasher. Well, thats not entirely accurate. It makes a noise, it just doesn't *do* anything.
The icemaker. Its a joy to open the fridge and see water streaming down from the freezer, and creating a river in the fridge.
The big TV. We are now moving TV's around, so that there is a 13" in the LR and in my room.
The hotwater heater. Somedays its icy, some days its like being set on fire.
All drain plugs...tub and all sinks.
The lock on the side door. I finally just nailed the damn thing shut.
Sliding closet doors. They now are propped against the wall.
The flusher thingy on the toilet. You gotta hold that puppy down and make it do its thing.
The cabinet face on one of the cabinets in the kitchen. About a month ago, when opening it to reach for some Ibuprofen for my neverending headache, the damn door fell on me and knocked me silly. It now resides on the floor, propped against the lower cabinet. "Someone" will fix it, I just know it.
And now, as of today, the bathroom door is no longer in its frame. Don't ask ME.... I have no idea. I was sitting here minding my own business, not thinking one single thing about all the thuds and bumps and carrying on because I hear it every moment that the kids are here, and then all of a sudden I hear hysterical laughter. Thats when I knew something was up. The kids came flying in all atwixt and atwither because as they put it, "Mom, hurry! The door is falling!" So I go flying down the hall in my flulike state, but no, the door is still there, it has a good 2 feet remaining before it's a goner.
Why don't I feel anything anymore?
A couple days ago, I had no water pressure, and clever Mom that I am, I knew what the problem was. So, I asked my son if he turned the faucet off outside when he fed and watered the dog. Ofcourse he did, he exclaims. Uh, huh. So it takes three trips outside, resulting in no change in the water pressure, before he finally admits that the handle on the faucet is broken off, and he can't turn it.
Do you think he knows how this lovely event happened?
Do you think the ex left me any tools?
Do you think I'd have a clue what to do with them, had he left me any?
I'll spare you the story of the leak under my kitchen sink that went unnoticed for several months, and what I discovered when I finally noticed the squishing under my feet when I got anywhere near that sink.
I'll spare you the details of what I decided to do.
I'll also spare you my humiliation when Trail visited, and opened that cabinet to look for a scrubber.
I won't tell you about the adventure of my front steps, precariously hanging on by a couple of nails...
And I won't even think of telling you about my car.
(The movie "The Money Pit" comes to mind.)
You have NO idea.
It all began about 5.5 years ago when the ex and I were bullied into "renting with option" said hell hole from the ex's parents. They bought it about 15 years ago quite cheaply to fix up and resell. Well, it was on the market for years without so much as a glance...and they had a couple other houses in their name, so this wasn't exactly a priority to them.
I'm betting I know why.
This house was a shell the day we moved into it, having been gutted years prior, and basically redesigned. They lived in it "as is", and worked on it maybe once or twice in all those years, and actually what it resembled was the local dump. The walls were damaged drywall, with layers and layers of wallpaper that "someone" began stripping, and then just walked away. In some rooms, it was new drywall that "someone" apparently forgot to mud, sand, and paint or paper. The floors, with the exception of three rooms, were subfloor only. Then his dad became inspired and spent a ton of money on some very beautiful hardwood floors for the DR and foyer, and down the hall. But guess what? He never sealed the beautiful and extremely expensive floors, and they are now about as appealing as a limp noodle.
There is no trim work (moulding) anywhere, and I gotta tell you, its a bitch painting framework that just ends and leaves you hanging there. I also gotta tell you that it ain't the most brilliant move one can make to take a power sander to your walls in an effort to sand off joint compound.
The bathroom is, oh hell, I don't know if I can do this....
The bathroom is my nightmare. It used to be a kitchen, but then became a combination bath/laundry room. Being that it was once a kitchen, it's pretty large. Right up in front of the sink was this floor to ceiling shelving with no doors or cabinets, and this is where they stored all their personal hygiene items, and it was such an unsightly, ill placed mess that it was number one on the "honey do" list, above all else, such as the foundation that was never enclosed, and the fact that the house was painted 2 different shades of yellow. This is because the ex, just like his parents, started painting it, and half way through, walked away and never picked up that roller again. 5.5 years later, the ladder still stands propped against the house.
I live in a half painted house.
So anyway, down comes the big shelving unit, I rip the laundry cabinets right off the wall in a hormonal fit, and determine that I will have this beautiful, large and luxurious bathroom, one rivaling anything you've seen on HGTV.
But no. Due to the shelving being removed, there is this long strip down the floor in which there is just subfloor, but since the rest of the bathroom is subfloor too, I thought "hey, something actually matches!".
Well no, thats not quite accurate, there is a bit of yellowed kitchen linoleum that ofcourse someone decided they'd finish yanking up "another day", with yellow paint spilled all over it that was never cleaned up, but manages to match somehow. The walls are a lovely mixture of gray primer, and yellow paint that *I* never finished painting. Can you imagine?
There are huge holes in the walls that seem to go into hidden rooms, as I can see nothing in there when I peer in, and no amount of mud and drywall is gonna fix those puppies. (I've often wondered if duct tape...oh, never mind.)
Now, as if all this isn't enough, when your eyes manage to travel up to the ceiling, you can't help but notice all the lovely popcorn spray on stuff that I am absolutely conviced at one time was quite stunning...but now it hangs in long strips, threatening to cover me in popcorn dust yet another time. I figure at this rate, it will all be gone by the year 2005, and "someone" will be able to apply a new layer.
But its OK...really. This, believe it or not, is not what is distressing me. I worked myself silly for about the first three years, so much so that the ex was lovingly referred to at work as "Mrs. Vila". I took down walls, put them back up, learned to apply wallpaper all by myself, and once I got used to it entangling me and sticking to my clothes instead of the wall, it went OK. I learned that when the damn joint compound won't sand off within 4 hours of trying, the only way out is to apply a ton of joint compound and make it look like it was intended to be a "faux texture" and that most will accept this.
I learned that one should never leave the windows open when attempting to learn to use power tools, especially when one uses colorful language, as it tends to attract the attention of the neighbors. I have yet to determine where I stand with them....the looks they give me aren't easily read.
But then the curse began. First and foremost, I think I have some kind of electrical spirit that likes to mess with me. I must blow a fuse atleast 3 times a week. I cannot dry clothes and dry my hair at the same time. I cannot vacuum and dry clothes at the same time. I cannot use the space heater with ANYTHING ELSE ON, (My furnace works when it wants to work, though the thermometer gauge on it no longer moves, so I'm thinking maybe it thinks its broke, therefore it IS broke???) and several times a day, everything will flicker on and off. It really is a mental exercise to determine what I can do electrically, before I do it. But its OK, so much is broken now that my choices have narrowed considerably.
Oh, and on the subject of my dryer (which ofcourse is STILL in my large, luxurious bathroom) well, do you think its supposed to make the clothes smoke? Even when I set it on "no heat", in about 35 minutes, there is a smoky smell, and sure enough, when I open the door, smoke comes out.
On the ever growing list of broken items are the following:
The dishwasher. Well, thats not entirely accurate. It makes a noise, it just doesn't *do* anything.
The icemaker. Its a joy to open the fridge and see water streaming down from the freezer, and creating a river in the fridge.
The big TV. We are now moving TV's around, so that there is a 13" in the LR and in my room.
The hotwater heater. Somedays its icy, some days its like being set on fire.
All drain plugs...tub and all sinks.
The lock on the side door. I finally just nailed the damn thing shut.
Sliding closet doors. They now are propped against the wall.
The flusher thingy on the toilet. You gotta hold that puppy down and make it do its thing.
The cabinet face on one of the cabinets in the kitchen. About a month ago, when opening it to reach for some Ibuprofen for my neverending headache, the damn door fell on me and knocked me silly. It now resides on the floor, propped against the lower cabinet. "Someone" will fix it, I just know it.
And now, as of today, the bathroom door is no longer in its frame. Don't ask ME.... I have no idea. I was sitting here minding my own business, not thinking one single thing about all the thuds and bumps and carrying on because I hear it every moment that the kids are here, and then all of a sudden I hear hysterical laughter. Thats when I knew something was up. The kids came flying in all atwixt and atwither because as they put it, "Mom, hurry! The door is falling!" So I go flying down the hall in my flulike state, but no, the door is still there, it has a good 2 feet remaining before it's a goner.
Why don't I feel anything anymore?
A couple days ago, I had no water pressure, and clever Mom that I am, I knew what the problem was. So, I asked my son if he turned the faucet off outside when he fed and watered the dog. Ofcourse he did, he exclaims. Uh, huh. So it takes three trips outside, resulting in no change in the water pressure, before he finally admits that the handle on the faucet is broken off, and he can't turn it.
Do you think he knows how this lovely event happened?
Do you think the ex left me any tools?
Do you think I'd have a clue what to do with them, had he left me any?
I'll spare you the story of the leak under my kitchen sink that went unnoticed for several months, and what I discovered when I finally noticed the squishing under my feet when I got anywhere near that sink.
I'll spare you the details of what I decided to do.
I'll also spare you my humiliation when Trail visited, and opened that cabinet to look for a scrubber.
I won't tell you about the adventure of my front steps, precariously hanging on by a couple of nails...
And I won't even think of telling you about my car.
