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Friday, November 23, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
A Thanksgiving Ghost Story
GAR thinks our house is haunted.
But, then again, he thinks everywhere is haunted. He’s concocted some crazy story about how the husband of the woman we bought the house from electrocuted himself to death on some exposed wires on our pool filter box. He gleaned all this from when the woman told him at closing to “beware of the wires – you can get shocked pretty bad.” Obviously this meant that they had killed before. OBVIOUSLY.
I blame his overactive imagination on the various ghost hunting television programs he watches each week. They fill his brain with images of ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night (and, most recently, he’s also gotten hooked on zombies. If I hear him say “But what if we go to see ‘Skyfall’ and when we come out of the theater the zombie apocalypse has happened?” one more time…) He believes it and is terrified by it … but he also loves it. We’ve been ghost hunting in Savannah where, he believes, I had an encounter with an “orb” spirit. And we’ve been ghost hunting in Scotland where he very, very firmly believes that we not only encountered a famous ghost known as Mr. Boots in the underground vaults beneath the city, but that said ghost also followed us back to our hotel room where I dreamt of an evil creature chopping off GAR’s toes and, when he awoke the next morning, his feet were hurting so bad he thought he had broken every bone in them. Thankfully Mr. Boots couldn’t follow us all the way to Loch Ness where we totally saw Nessie (I'm waiting for my checks to roll in from the "National Enquirer" any day now) and GAR’s feet miraculously healed.
It’s not that I’ve never had strange encounters before. Growing up I believed there was a man who lived in my closet. He would come out at night if I forgot to shut the doors and hover over me in my bed. He terrified me but I knew he was simply a long-standing delusion of mine. Until, one time in high school, a friend spent the night and upon waking the next morning told me that she saw a man come out of my closet the night before. Okay, yeah, it was a strange coincidence. But I’m a skeptic and, as such, I refuse to blindly believe there’s more to it than that.
And so I indulge GAR with his ghost hunts and his fantasy hauntings and politely busy myself with other activities while he watches “Ghost Adventurers.” And, hey, when a Groupon came up for a “ghost hunt” in an old town just outside of Orlando I even said “Why don’t we do that? It could be fun!” (Spoiler alert: It was not.)
Let me paint a picture of our evening for you: It’s a cold night and we meet up with other “ghost trackers” in front of an ice cream shop (if only I had gotten the ice cream, despite the cold weather. I’m sure it would have been the highlight of the night). If you don’t know this, GAR is a professor and, naturally, we unexpectedly run into one of his students there. No, of course she’s not there for the ghost hunt, but she quickly learns that we are – I figure this knocks GAR’s credibility down quite a few notches in her book. At last our guide arrives. He makes a few jokes in poor taste and doles out some neon yellow vests that he tells the ladies (and only the ladies) that we "have" to wear – sexy. And then he starts (incredibly slowly) handing out some very cheap looking “ghost tracking” equipment that is very obviously nothing but a box with a blinky light on it. Here is GAR with his supposed "K2" device (which looks a heck of a lot like our ceiling fan remote).
Things are not going well for Mr. Ghost Tracker (or “GT” as he calls himself). But then something miraculous happens – GT gets “recognized” by some fans. These girls come up to him in a tizzy screaming “Is it you? Are you the Ghost Tracker?” And suddenly I’m intrigued. This guy is for real? He has fans? But how? GT explains that he has a national ghost hunting television show. What, we haven’t seen it? He’s shocked. After all, it airs at 2:30 a.m. on Sundays. Ah, okay, right. (After I got home that night I searched the tv channels for any sign of his show without avail. I may have to call shenanigans on the whole thing and say he paid these "screaming fans" to pretend to recognize him. My DVR doesn't lie.)
It’s at this point that we get to hear GT’s back story – his “superhero origin story” if you will. In other words, we get to hear about how it is that he came to have a supernatural ability to “track” spirits who are trapped here on Earth. As a young boy GT was in a terrible car accident that caused half of his brain function to shut down. To try to revive the dormant areas of his brain the doctors performed some sort of electric shock therapy on him by prodding his brain with metal rods. This electrocution opened up a portal to the afterworld that allows him to see, hear and communicate with ghosts. You got all that? Good. And, of course, he “proved” his abilities to us by showing us photos of alleged “spirits” caught on film (or digital “film” anyway) that looked like nothing (maybe a vague shadow at the very, very best) and saying “I know you can’t see it, but to me I can make it the whole figure … even what she’s wearing" (which was, shocker, "period clothing." Just once I'd like to see a ghost rocking a Flock of Seagulls haircut and some Hammer pants). "It’s my curse,” he would continuously say (it's also the name of his "book" - I'll be rushing right out to buy that one). Ah yes, the ghost that only you can see … because of your special powers … this should be a fascinating tour …
And that’s pretty much how it went all evening. He told stories about the time he went to the former site of the World Trade Center towers and all he could hear was the voices of the dead and the sound was so overwhelming that blood shot out of his eyes and his cameraman made him leave and find somewhere "safer" (Question: You had a cameraman? He caught this blood shooting out of your eye sockets on film?? Why has this footage not made serious national news ... or at least become a YouTube sensation?) And he showed us a house he bought that was the site of a vicious murder/suicide and how he was planning to restore the home to its former glory so that the spirits of those who were killed there can be set free (How? That part was unclear) and that he would "handle" the ghost of the murderer "in his own way" (no one even asked how on that one). And when his phone would ring he would shurg and say "Fox. They're always calling me." (Yes. I bet they are). But mostly he just showed us random things around town and gave us a history lesson. It wasn't so much a "ghost tour" as it was a "wandering around town and looking at literal eagles’ nests tour."
Oh, but the "equipment" he gave us? Some voice recorders that he told us to turn on but never played back the results for us, and an iPad app that "detects" ghosts in the area (which GAR also has on his iPhone .... he got it for free) - not so helpful. At one point GT asked the ghost of a homeless man who was murdered at a now abandoned bank to say the name of one of the people in our group (ghosts know our names?) and we heard nothing. But, of course, GT heard a name ... but did he tell us what it was? No. Instead he made everyone tell him our names and then at one point said "You said your name is Mike? That's what he said! Mike!" And THIS was the big conclusion to the evening. The giant ta-da! The definitive proof that ghosts exist and that GT can communicate with them.
Well you got me. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. You, GT, are telling the absolute truth (about one thing anyway) – you really DID lose half of your brain function, didn't you?
Thankfully the money from this tour goes to "charity" (don't ask which one, just "charity" – that's all GT would say). But I doubt we're done hunting for the dearly departed just yet. Why? Because even if we don't have special powers that allow us to communicate with the dead, GAR is still convinced that this is Mr. Boot’s face behind the gate in this photo (in Scotland), and that proves to him that some spirits ARE real. And if you don't see the face don't worry, GAR can. And if GT's logic holds up, if one person can see it then it must be true!
But, then again, he thinks everywhere is haunted. He’s concocted some crazy story about how the husband of the woman we bought the house from electrocuted himself to death on some exposed wires on our pool filter box. He gleaned all this from when the woman told him at closing to “beware of the wires – you can get shocked pretty bad.” Obviously this meant that they had killed before. OBVIOUSLY.
I blame his overactive imagination on the various ghost hunting television programs he watches each week. They fill his brain with images of ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night (and, most recently, he’s also gotten hooked on zombies. If I hear him say “But what if we go to see ‘Skyfall’ and when we come out of the theater the zombie apocalypse has happened?” one more time…) He believes it and is terrified by it … but he also loves it. We’ve been ghost hunting in Savannah where, he believes, I had an encounter with an “orb” spirit. And we’ve been ghost hunting in Scotland where he very, very firmly believes that we not only encountered a famous ghost known as Mr. Boots in the underground vaults beneath the city, but that said ghost also followed us back to our hotel room where I dreamt of an evil creature chopping off GAR’s toes and, when he awoke the next morning, his feet were hurting so bad he thought he had broken every bone in them. Thankfully Mr. Boots couldn’t follow us all the way to Loch Ness where we totally saw Nessie (I'm waiting for my checks to roll in from the "National Enquirer" any day now) and GAR’s feet miraculously healed.
It’s not that I’ve never had strange encounters before. Growing up I believed there was a man who lived in my closet. He would come out at night if I forgot to shut the doors and hover over me in my bed. He terrified me but I knew he was simply a long-standing delusion of mine. Until, one time in high school, a friend spent the night and upon waking the next morning told me that she saw a man come out of my closet the night before. Okay, yeah, it was a strange coincidence. But I’m a skeptic and, as such, I refuse to blindly believe there’s more to it than that.
And so I indulge GAR with his ghost hunts and his fantasy hauntings and politely busy myself with other activities while he watches “Ghost Adventurers.” And, hey, when a Groupon came up for a “ghost hunt” in an old town just outside of Orlando I even said “Why don’t we do that? It could be fun!” (Spoiler alert: It was not.)
Let me paint a picture of our evening for you: It’s a cold night and we meet up with other “ghost trackers” in front of an ice cream shop (if only I had gotten the ice cream, despite the cold weather. I’m sure it would have been the highlight of the night). If you don’t know this, GAR is a professor and, naturally, we unexpectedly run into one of his students there. No, of course she’s not there for the ghost hunt, but she quickly learns that we are – I figure this knocks GAR’s credibility down quite a few notches in her book. At last our guide arrives. He makes a few jokes in poor taste and doles out some neon yellow vests that he tells the ladies (and only the ladies) that we "have" to wear – sexy. And then he starts (incredibly slowly) handing out some very cheap looking “ghost tracking” equipment that is very obviously nothing but a box with a blinky light on it. Here is GAR with his supposed "K2" device (which looks a heck of a lot like our ceiling fan remote).
Things are not going well for Mr. Ghost Tracker (or “GT” as he calls himself). But then something miraculous happens – GT gets “recognized” by some fans. These girls come up to him in a tizzy screaming “Is it you? Are you the Ghost Tracker?” And suddenly I’m intrigued. This guy is for real? He has fans? But how? GT explains that he has a national ghost hunting television show. What, we haven’t seen it? He’s shocked. After all, it airs at 2:30 a.m. on Sundays. Ah, okay, right. (After I got home that night I searched the tv channels for any sign of his show without avail. I may have to call shenanigans on the whole thing and say he paid these "screaming fans" to pretend to recognize him. My DVR doesn't lie.)
It’s at this point that we get to hear GT’s back story – his “superhero origin story” if you will. In other words, we get to hear about how it is that he came to have a supernatural ability to “track” spirits who are trapped here on Earth. As a young boy GT was in a terrible car accident that caused half of his brain function to shut down. To try to revive the dormant areas of his brain the doctors performed some sort of electric shock therapy on him by prodding his brain with metal rods. This electrocution opened up a portal to the afterworld that allows him to see, hear and communicate with ghosts. You got all that? Good. And, of course, he “proved” his abilities to us by showing us photos of alleged “spirits” caught on film (or digital “film” anyway) that looked like nothing (maybe a vague shadow at the very, very best) and saying “I know you can’t see it, but to me I can make it the whole figure … even what she’s wearing" (which was, shocker, "period clothing." Just once I'd like to see a ghost rocking a Flock of Seagulls haircut and some Hammer pants). "It’s my curse,” he would continuously say (it's also the name of his "book" - I'll be rushing right out to buy that one). Ah yes, the ghost that only you can see … because of your special powers … this should be a fascinating tour …
And that’s pretty much how it went all evening. He told stories about the time he went to the former site of the World Trade Center towers and all he could hear was the voices of the dead and the sound was so overwhelming that blood shot out of his eyes and his cameraman made him leave and find somewhere "safer" (Question: You had a cameraman? He caught this blood shooting out of your eye sockets on film?? Why has this footage not made serious national news ... or at least become a YouTube sensation?) And he showed us a house he bought that was the site of a vicious murder/suicide and how he was planning to restore the home to its former glory so that the spirits of those who were killed there can be set free (How? That part was unclear) and that he would "handle" the ghost of the murderer "in his own way" (no one even asked how on that one). And when his phone would ring he would shurg and say "Fox. They're always calling me." (Yes. I bet they are). But mostly he just showed us random things around town and gave us a history lesson. It wasn't so much a "ghost tour" as it was a "wandering around town and looking at literal eagles’ nests tour."
Oh, but the "equipment" he gave us? Some voice recorders that he told us to turn on but never played back the results for us, and an iPad app that "detects" ghosts in the area (which GAR also has on his iPhone .... he got it for free) - not so helpful. At one point GT asked the ghost of a homeless man who was murdered at a now abandoned bank to say the name of one of the people in our group (ghosts know our names?) and we heard nothing. But, of course, GT heard a name ... but did he tell us what it was? No. Instead he made everyone tell him our names and then at one point said "You said your name is Mike? That's what he said! Mike!" And THIS was the big conclusion to the evening. The giant ta-da! The definitive proof that ghosts exist and that GT can communicate with them.
Well you got me. I've never been more sure of anything in my life. You, GT, are telling the absolute truth (about one thing anyway) – you really DID lose half of your brain function, didn't you?
Thankfully the money from this tour goes to "charity" (don't ask which one, just "charity" – that's all GT would say). But I doubt we're done hunting for the dearly departed just yet. Why? Because even if we don't have special powers that allow us to communicate with the dead, GAR is still convinced that this is Mr. Boot’s face behind the gate in this photo (in Scotland), and that proves to him that some spirits ARE real. And if you don't see the face don't worry, GAR can. And if GT's logic holds up, if one person can see it then it must be true!
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Cool As A Nuked Cuke
When I was younger, more immature and, let’s face it, just less in control of my emotions I was known to fly off the handle a time or two (or 100). I like to say that I was simply passionate. That I believed so strongly in right vs. wrong and fought things that I saw as an injustice with a sharp tongue. But in truth I was really just kind of an asshole. I blamed others whenever anything didn’t go exactly my way instead of ever turning that finger around to point at myself. I see this same behavior in some youngsters now (as well as Hollywood starlets, a surprisingly large number of corporate execs - I'm talking to you DONALD TRUMP - and assorted manchild-esque adults) and I find it deplorable and, yet, I know I used to be that much in denial myself. Ahhh … memories.
Of course now I’ve chilled out a bit. I’ve matured (a little anyway, let’s not get too crazy). I’ve found peace and happiness in life. I’ve acknowledged that it’s only me and my attitude and my actions that are responsible for my life. And really very little phases me and gets me riled up like it used to – at least not the little things anyway. I’m the proverbial cucumber that others say they are as cool as.
But God damn it did I lose my shit this week. And though it happens so very rarely in my life anymore, I did what most people do when they blow a fuse – I exploded all over the thing that is very nearest and dearest to me: GAR. (You always hurt the ones you love the most. See, I do it out of love baby. LOVE.)
I should note that last week was simply wretched. And I’m sure the fact that I also decided to pick this week as the time to definitively give up my serious caffeine addiction had nothing to do with my sour mood. NOTHING. AT. ALL. And I had to hobble around work one day with a broken shoe on one foot when the sole fell off … and my skirt flew up over my head in the parking lot and my whole office building got to see my naked thighs and my underpants that say “Sasstastic” across the rear end … and my current book club read is all feminist angst aimed at why men are the root of all evil, etc. etc. But let’s not make excuses here – I am responsible for my own actions … and my own actions led me to completely rip GAR’s head off, eat it for breakfast and then stomp on his heart for dessert.
Or I just got snarky with him a little and blamed him for something that (if I’m being honest here) is kind of his fault. But it felt MUCH more dramatic in my mind (like the time in high school I got in such a impassioned fight with my parents about why I do not believe the television program “America’s Funniest Home Videos” is even remotely funny that ended with me storming out of the house and “running away from home” … because this is how I used to roll when I got angry about something).
But let’s get to the point already, okay? Here’s what happened: Remember our labor intensive door refinishing project? Remember the hours we poured into making those old crappy doors look beautiful again? The blood (or at the very least, some paint splattered clothing)? The sweat? The tears? Well it all went down the drain when I realized that, despite all our best efforts, during the sanding process GAR had managed to also sand the glass in the door, irreparably damaging it with scratches. I hadn’t noticed before because the doors were so dusty from the sanding but now that they’re cleaned it’s clear that they’re ruined. I’M RUINED! Because, let’s face it, we spent weeks repairing those doors … and now we’re back at square one.
Now I know that as novice DIYers we’re apt to make some errors like this. Nonetheless I could help but not-so-calmly explain to GAR that he should have known that paper made out of SAND would scratch glass. But I digress … Let me take a moment to breathe … Settle down … And reach my happy place again. Ah yes, there it is – whew!
Okay, so how are we going to solve this little problem of ours? Well, we’re not. I mean, not unless you have any ideas. Please? I mean, I would love to hear them. LOVE. But until then there’s really only one thing we can do – pretend it never happened. It’s what’s best for our sanity really.
Instead GAR has thrust himself into a new DIY project that he also knows nothing about, is much more complicated than door refinishing and is once again, in our typical spirit of self-reliance, not even Googling directions on how to do properly because, of course, we can figure this out on our own – constructing wainscoting for the dining room. It’s a project that is well beyond our original scope of work for the house, is in no way necessary and generally requires the help of professional millworkers to accomplish (FunFact: My Dad was a millworker by trade for many years. Of course, GAR is starting this project this weekend and Dad will be in Michigan until January and is, therefore, of no help to us so it’s not so much of a “fun” fact as much as it’s just a “fact” that in no way assists us in getting this incredibly ambitious project completed) – what could possibly go wrong?
But damn, I do love me some nice wainscoting … so I’m just going to let him do it and see how this one plays out. And I’ll try to keep my temperature that of refrigerated produce from here on out.
Here's the look we're going for. I'll be sure to post photos of how it actually turns out.
Of course now I’ve chilled out a bit. I’ve matured (a little anyway, let’s not get too crazy). I’ve found peace and happiness in life. I’ve acknowledged that it’s only me and my attitude and my actions that are responsible for my life. And really very little phases me and gets me riled up like it used to – at least not the little things anyway. I’m the proverbial cucumber that others say they are as cool as.
But God damn it did I lose my shit this week. And though it happens so very rarely in my life anymore, I did what most people do when they blow a fuse – I exploded all over the thing that is very nearest and dearest to me: GAR. (You always hurt the ones you love the most. See, I do it out of love baby. LOVE.)
I should note that last week was simply wretched. And I’m sure the fact that I also decided to pick this week as the time to definitively give up my serious caffeine addiction had nothing to do with my sour mood. NOTHING. AT. ALL. And I had to hobble around work one day with a broken shoe on one foot when the sole fell off … and my skirt flew up over my head in the parking lot and my whole office building got to see my naked thighs and my underpants that say “Sasstastic” across the rear end … and my current book club read is all feminist angst aimed at why men are the root of all evil, etc. etc. But let’s not make excuses here – I am responsible for my own actions … and my own actions led me to completely rip GAR’s head off, eat it for breakfast and then stomp on his heart for dessert.
Or I just got snarky with him a little and blamed him for something that (if I’m being honest here) is kind of his fault. But it felt MUCH more dramatic in my mind (like the time in high school I got in such a impassioned fight with my parents about why I do not believe the television program “America’s Funniest Home Videos” is even remotely funny that ended with me storming out of the house and “running away from home” … because this is how I used to roll when I got angry about something).
But let’s get to the point already, okay? Here’s what happened: Remember our labor intensive door refinishing project? Remember the hours we poured into making those old crappy doors look beautiful again? The blood (or at the very least, some paint splattered clothing)? The sweat? The tears? Well it all went down the drain when I realized that, despite all our best efforts, during the sanding process GAR had managed to also sand the glass in the door, irreparably damaging it with scratches. I hadn’t noticed before because the doors were so dusty from the sanding but now that they’re cleaned it’s clear that they’re ruined. I’M RUINED! Because, let’s face it, we spent weeks repairing those doors … and now we’re back at square one.
Now I know that as novice DIYers we’re apt to make some errors like this. Nonetheless I could help but not-so-calmly explain to GAR that he should have known that paper made out of SAND would scratch glass. But I digress … Let me take a moment to breathe … Settle down … And reach my happy place again. Ah yes, there it is – whew!
Okay, so how are we going to solve this little problem of ours? Well, we’re not. I mean, not unless you have any ideas. Please? I mean, I would love to hear them. LOVE. But until then there’s really only one thing we can do – pretend it never happened. It’s what’s best for our sanity really.
Instead GAR has thrust himself into a new DIY project that he also knows nothing about, is much more complicated than door refinishing and is once again, in our typical spirit of self-reliance, not even Googling directions on how to do properly because, of course, we can figure this out on our own – constructing wainscoting for the dining room. It’s a project that is well beyond our original scope of work for the house, is in no way necessary and generally requires the help of professional millworkers to accomplish (FunFact: My Dad was a millworker by trade for many years. Of course, GAR is starting this project this weekend and Dad will be in Michigan until January and is, therefore, of no help to us so it’s not so much of a “fun” fact as much as it’s just a “fact” that in no way assists us in getting this incredibly ambitious project completed) – what could possibly go wrong?
But damn, I do love me some nice wainscoting … so I’m just going to let him do it and see how this one plays out. And I’ll try to keep my temperature that of refrigerated produce from here on out.
Here's the look we're going for. I'll be sure to post photos of how it actually turns out.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
50 Shades Of Grey (Or, In My Case, Brown)
That pretty much sums up my feelings towards my home at the moment (I mean, my house is not underwater and I have power and all that, so I do have things in perspective here. But still ... not currently a fan of the place nonetheless). Why? Because I’ve spent every freakin’ moment of the past – how many months? Or has it been years now? – painting gawd forsaken doors, the trim to go around said doors and, worst of all, the baseboards throughout the entire house. And we’re STILL not done. So, yeah, I hate those mother $(@&%($&ers!
In retrospect it would have TOTALLY been worth it to hire this work out. But we’ve come too far, done too much, to turn back now. And we’re stubborn as Hell so, you know, we’ll just keep on keeping on … and hating every second of it.
It’s all part of our “do everything we can possibly do on our own ourselves” motto we’ve been following these past 2.5 years of home ownership in an effort to save up our construction dollars for things we really need professionals to do for us – like plumbing and electrical. And it really is a good plan. After all, we’re not made of money here. But, even though I sort of love feeling like Tim Taylor while I’m doing it – grunting and beating my chest with (wo)manly pride – there are some times that I kind of hate doing all this work … especially when it comes to the “non-sexy” parts of home renovations – like installing baseboards. Oh sure, I’ll gladly take a sledgehammer to a hideous bathroom vanity and install a new one because, you know, it’s pretty. But new doors? YAWN! I mean, I want them, and they do improve the overall look of the house, but they just don’t have the pizazz … the panache … that, say, some gorgeous glass tile brings to our kitchen back splash.
Nonetheless, when it comes to painting, cutting and installing trim, sexy or not, it’s something we’re more than capable of handing on our own. We have to do it ourselves. I mean, we HAVE to. It’s not in our nature to hire that type of work out. It’s like hiring a maid – we’d be paying for something we can do ourselves (but that doesn’t stop me from wanting a maid either – desperately).
And so we trudge on with it … for what seems like ages now. Because, frankly, the work never ends and there is just so, so much of it to get done. It’s like an episode of “Renovation Realities” (I realize as I type this that perhaps you are not familiar with this program because you watch actual television programs that are shown on networks other than HGTV, whereas that’s pretty much the only channel we watch. Well let me sum it up for you – people attempt home renovations. They usually do not go as planned) where you THINK something should only take a matter of days but everything drags out much, much longer than you ever imagined and slowly the project consumes your life. Seriously. This trim work IS my life right now. And, while I really wish I had a better project to show you, like a cool new fire pit in the backyard, or the swanky wallpaper I plan to attempt in the laundry room some day, or even a (more boring but functional nonetheless) shower handle to replace the one we have that’s broken despite the fact that we just installed it last week that replaced the we replaced earlier this year (did you follow all that? Basically we’re on our 4th shower handle install in the same year for the same shower) – but I don’t. All I have is some baseboard, trim and doors.
Here’s the latest project – our French doors that separate the front of the house (which we never use) from the back of the house. They’re totally not a necessary feature of the house and serve no real purpose, but we decided to paint them just for kicks (because that’s the kind of crazy, fun-loving people we are). Here’s the “before” shot of one of the scuffed up, cracked, poorly abused doors (the photo doesn't really show how beat up these are).
First we removed them from their hinges (which were brass and got immediately thrown away - the above shot was, of course, taken after they were already off their hinges) and fill all the old holes and cracks with wood putty.
Then we power sanded the patched holes and all of that shiny 80s gloss that covered the entire door. (Admittedly using the power sander does sort of make the whole project worthwhile. Damn, I love me some power tools. And, top of my list of favorite power tools is the sander - grunting Tim Taylor style some more as I type that.) And we taped all those little panes of glass – front and back.
Before applying approximately 1 bagillion (I’m rounding, of course) coats of paint to each side (that manly hand belongs to GAR not, me. I know, you're disappointed but, never fear, you'll see my model worthy hands coming up soon).
Before finally hanging them back in their rightful position in our house (using new, less offensive looking hardware). And we touched up any paint that got dinged up along the way. But, finally: Ta-da!
Aren't they simply a-door-able (see what I did there - eh?? Eh?? Funny, right? RIGHT?) - the doors and the dog, of course. And here's a shot of them closed (which they never, ever are. Remind me again why we spent weeks upon weeks redoing them? Is it because we're masochists? But they do look prettier this way - once we removed the blue painters tape, of course. Oh, and there is all this weird old yellowing glue on each window pane that we still need to exacto off - carefully - and then windex the whole thing to make it nice and clear so we're not really, really done yet. And then there's still the other door like this that separates the dining room from the kitchen ... and the one that's in the guest bedroom that leads out to the pool which we haven't even touched yet. But, see, we're so close! Relatively speaking I guess. Or, like I said before, we might just be masochists ... which, frankly, is seeming like the most plausible explanation right now).
Although we're still deciding if we should paint the front doors this same dark brown color or leave them white (and we'd love your feedback because GAR and I disagree on this issue. Correction: I would like your feedback because I think I'll win this argument because, clearly, I'm right - I just need you to back me up on this one).
So now all we have to do is the trim around these doors which is ... well, it's Hell. Picture the same process all over all again, but with 8 pieces of trim per door. But, hey, at least I get to spend some more QT (quality time) with my power sander (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).
So now all we have to do is the trim around these doors which is ... well, it's Hell. Picture the same process all over all again, but with 8 pieces of trim per door. But, hey, at least I get to spend some more QT (quality time) with my power sander (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).
And, even if once upon time I was "discovered" as America's Next Top Hand Model I sure won't be getting any gigs now that my hands perpetually look like they belong to a paint covered weathered old man.
Check out that HUGE life life on my hand (that's a thing, right? It's one of those lines I'm sure). I'll be living for a LONG time to come. Which is good, because I need about another 70 years to finish this work on my house.
But, of course, I also secretly love it. I really AM a masochist, aren't I (GAR could diagnose me sure)? But damn, it hurts so good!
So, if you need me anytime in the foreseeable future you know where I'll be (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).
But, of course, I also secretly love it. I really AM a masochist, aren't I (GAR could diagnose me sure)? But damn, it hurts so good!
So, if you need me anytime in the foreseeable future you know where I'll be (*grunt* *grunt* *grunt*).
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