#comejoindee

The Long Haul

A few months ago my darling Mr. Thirty-Three Percent graduated to Mr. Fifty-Seven Percent. Being the recipient of this new title, he is true to his word. Needless to say, we are still next door. It is still winter. And we are still going.

Toiling away and trying to balance work and renovations with Dad and Hubby duties, it can’t be fun for my long suffering man. The warmish, longish Indian summer finally moved out, making way for what will probably be the longest winter on record. And I would be extremely surprised if we didn’t get snow.

Every evening I continue to make the trek back to the house to feed the girls, check on progress and use the gym, and every day night time appears to descend earlier and earlier. Very soon night will have arrived by wine o’clock, and even the mere thought of hanging washing on the line will simply be a distant memory. Everything is damp and slippery, and the constant croaking of frogs in the garden beds and dams are a stark reminder that I need to drag out my thermals.

After dinner this night as I race back to the place formally known as home, I am conscious of another huge band of rain that is about to descend and make a mental note that the ability to build an ark would probably be a marvelous skill right about now. I also decide that locating my scarves has become a priority. You see, when we packed up and moved out back in November, some seven months ago, according to Mr. Then-Thirty-Three Percent, we might have been finished by now.  I knew it was an optimistic estimate even with the added thirty-three percent leeway, but I wanted to give Hubby the benefit of the doubt.

So I packed those scarves, along with most of my woolen jumpers, thick tights, gloves and winter coats, only taking the things that I deemed necessary for spring, summer and autumn. Surely we would be back in time to unearth all my warm and wonderful winter-woolies, and life would continue on as normal. Clearly this is not the case.

Subconsciously I must have known this scenario would play out because it doesn’t take long to locate a handful of my favourite winter scarves and their multi-hole hanging thing Mum and I discovered at Ikea last winter when I was sick.  I only have to open two boxes before I find what I’m looking for, seal them up and make the mad dash home again. Laying my hands on the box with my coats proves to be slightly more difficult, and eventually I relent and buy a new one because I’m tired of looking. I just figure the expense is all part of the fifty-seven percent equation.

As Hubby has been spending every spare waking minute planning and purchasing for, researching or working on, all things house, I have been working six, sometimes seven, days a week. As it turns out we are short staffed at work with my counterpart recently relocating up north, and it’s the only way I feel I can constructively contribute at both work and home simultaneously. Other than that, I am pretty much useless.

One Sunday the plastering is just about complete and Hubby is standing in  the bathroom. Alone. That in itself is not a good thing. You can hear his mind ticking over. Reaching up to scratch his head, a look of relief washes over his face and as he turns to me, I dread what is about to come out. You guessed it. He wants to take out a wall. Actually, it’s a framed cupboard and a door.  Ahh man, it just went up.

But I can see why he feels compelled to rearrange things. The layout of the room will be much better with the door flipped over, and those of you into feng shui would definitely approve. I just hate to see all his hard work ripped apart. Yet again. Needless to say, the walls are removed, frames are resurrected, plaster and cupboards are reinstated. It takes a few extra days but finally Hubby is much happier with the final layout. And I am very pleased that he has it sorted.            

With things starting to come together, and basic furniture and appliances sought and bought, I am beginning to muster up the confidence to buy a few bits and pieces that may or may not work in our home. I’ve come across a couple of pictures for the walls, a retro mincer like the one my Gran had back in the day and even a set of Salter scales, minus the copper bowl, for the kitchen.

Who knows, sooner or later I might even get the hang of this redecorating thing. Which is lucky because it will probably take me forty years to find the matching bowl.

MUSICAL CHAIRS

For months now Hubby and I have done the rounds of multitudes of furniture stores trying to locate pieces that will not only fit the physical spaces of our yet-to-be completed reno, but more importantly ones that are comfortable, affordable and don’t look like they came from Franco Cozzo.  Not that the Il Modernissimo suites found at Mr Cozzo’s Brunswick and Footscray stores aren’t made with love and sure to last a lifetime. I’m just not confident they would suit our home. And mirrored ceilings are really not my thing.                        

Whenever we have been out and about for one thing or another, we’ve taken the time to seek out, select and sit in the many sofas and couches, dining chairs and stools that are on offer to today’s consumer. I am yet to decide whether it is more difficult to choose a sofa or a kitchen cupboard doorknob. But this I know for sure. If, in twelve months time, I change my mind about the door knobs,  replacing them will be a less expensive exercise.

Ever since we threw the kitchen chairs over the precipice at the tip, knowing we needed to find a replacement has been weighing heavily on my mind. You see, the problem is twofold. Firstly. I don’t like change. Even though I know that the old chairs were both hideously outdated and somewhat mildly dangerous, they were comfortably familiar and homey. They held memories, and possibly crumbs, and letting go was really hard. Secondly. The space that has been created for the new dining table is long and rectangular rather than square so finding something we both agreed on to seat a cast of thousands was always going to be trickey. The last thing we wanted was something that resembled a corporate boardroom table or one you would find in a school cafeteria. That, and I really have a problem with confrontation.

After months of searching, seeking and sitting we finally found the perfect setting for ten around a long timber table that we both really loved. In the showroom we sat chatting, making notes and testing out the sitability of the suite. We were both extremely impressed and didn’t hesitate to place the order, silently rejoicing that we could finally tick that one off the To Do List.  The lounge has been a totally different kettle of fish.

From day one replacing the lounge has been a real point of contention. Hubby and I have had a long term Mexican Stand Off as to what type of design would be best. Currently we have a hand-me-down three piece number which is both functional and comfortable, standing the test of time without any great drama. With seating for four, five at a stretch, this offers every bum a place to sit with the flexibility to move the chairs around on a whim. It a word, it’s great.

Hubby has a different take on things. He likes to stretch out on the couch each night, ‘assuming the position’ as I call it. Inevitably he falls asleep snoring, clutching the Wand of Power before being woken up and relocated to the bedroom. It’s a nightly ritual. On the other hand, I like my own space. I prefer to curl up on a single chair with a magazine, book or my laptop and sit beside the fire in my own little world of words and pictures. For me, this is bliss. So when Hubby expressed his desire to purchase a modular sectional sofa with a chaise, I was not looking forward to the fight. I recall friends in the eighties who saved for two years to buy one of these in brown velour, and since then I just can’t look at one without visualizing the film clip of “Whip It”. It’s not ideal.

So one Sunday morning when we stopped for coffee on the way to The Boy’s weekly footy match, finding our perfect sofa was the last thing on our mind. We happened to park the car in front of the only furniture store within a thirty kilometre radius of our house, and low and behold, in the front window was exactly what we had been looking for. Who would have thought that our neighbouring town would hold the elusive sofa. We glanced at each other and without another word we just knew.  Entering the store we sat down, tried it out, and agreed it was perfect. Deep and wide, firm but not hard, this one felt like home. I knew we had found The One.

BRICK BY BRICK

Things are still coming along, albeit slow and steady. It is now winter. This would mean that Mr. Thirty-Three Percent’s initial calculation is a little out of whack and Mr. Fifty-Seven Percent is looking more realistic. But we knew that was always going to be the case. I am freezing, going just a little stir crazy, and at times I wonder whether we will make it our before our children marry and have children themselves. And frequently I tell myself to relax and just breathe because I know eventually it will be ok.

Our current progress report looks something like this. The all-important insulation has been shoved into every nook and cranny that could ever be located. If there was a small gap, a large gap or something that looked remotely like a gap, it has been filled. And in the middle of July when it’s minus three degrees in the morning, this is one thing we will all be very glad Hubby remembered. Spasmodic items of a random nature that reflect the here and now, such as newspapers and an assortment of junk mail, have been placed into wall cavities in the hope that those who dissect our home in the years to come will be able to gain a deeper appreciation of the life we live today. Kind of like a renovation time capsule. Only less organised.

The fireplace has already had it’s maiden lighting as the weather is quite chilly. We also figured it would be best to give it a trial run before the house was finished, that way if things went pear-shaped at least the furniture and appliances would be spared from the inferno. Internal sliding doors have been hung, windows sorted, door frames planed and adjusted, and I know there has been so much more work completed by Hubby and his mates that I honestly have no idea about. My head hurts to even think about it.

Every night when I wander across to the gym Hubby gives me the number of all the items completed that I need to look for, which is our game of Spot The Difference. Some days the changes are blatantly obvious. Other days I am clueless, and pray that his sweeping the floor will constitute a tick.

The Boy recruited a few of his mates over the past few weeks, and between them, Hubby and I we finally managed to save enough of the old internal bricks to use for the external windows and doors. The arrival of the Brickie was a moment of sheer excitement. To me, this signalled the beginning of the homeward stretch. It was not meant to be. After a lengthy discussion between said Brickie and Hubby it was decided that one of the windows needed to be relocated. This would ensure the bricks were laid in an aesthetically pleasing manner, and would quite possibly expedite the laying process. So… Move the window.  Check.

Take two. Said Brickie was to come back a week later and commence the brick installation. Fail. Hubby had left the bricks uncovered and with the rainthat Jane promised finally arriving, the bricks were deemed too wet and needed to dry out before going in. So…  Bricks re-stacked in an airy herringbone formation, covered and left to dry.  Check.

TURNING THE CORNER

I can’t quite believe it. We have entered the six month mark, and if I am completely honest I think everything is going well. Lets face it, I’m not the one on the front line dealing with drop saws, belt sanders and a mobile scaffold platform thingy that looks like an industrial hospital bed. It’s Hubby that coordinates the delivery of building materials and organises the various tradies and volunteers needed to make things happen. His point of view may be a little different to mine. But lets go with mine for now.

When I last reported in we seemed to be marking time. Yes, things were getting done but there really wasn’t much to show for it. However I am extremely pleased to report that much has been completed and exciting things are beginning to happen. Internal walls are happening, water and gas lines have been plumbed, wiring underway and plastering ready to commence. The windows and external doors are all in, ceiling beams and timber work sanded, and what once was mission brown and salmon pink is now a blank canvass ready for Hubby to work his magic.

It may sound strange but I have come to realise that a lot of the time you know what you want, but you may not know exactly what that is until you see it. If that makes sense. Between (mostly) Hubby, (often) The Boy and (occasionally) me, we have spent I don’t know how many hours searching for tiles, tapware and the perfect kitchen sink. Decisions have been made on basins and towel rails, and who would have known so much thought would go into choosing just the right toilet, taking into consideration those who are extra tall or have issues with deteriorating hips and knees. All things considered, I think I did quite well in that department alone. Not a single meltdown.

I never thought I would ever say it but I have quite enjoyed the process of selecting kitchen appliances. It was so much better than trying to choose flooring or a paint colour. After multiple visits to the store with the stuff, then gradually narrowing down the billions of choices on offer, we managed to pick out the dishwasher, fridge, rangehood and ovens with very little disagreement. That in itself is a true wonder. The lighting store, however, was a very different kettle of fish.

The moment I set foot in that shop my heart began to race, my palms started to sweat, and I felt like I was back in that dreaded flooring showroom. Where was my selfie buddy when I needed him. And why are there so many lights to choose from. How am I supposed to know what is going to match my house when I don’t even have a house to imagine the light in. The only thing I spotted that looked remotely enticing was a tin thing that hung quite low, and looked like it was enjoying a second coming as a light fitting after spending years as a hat in a Balinese rice paddy. It wasn’t long after that Hubby generously offered to take care of the lighting, and we found a brilliant shoe shop across the road with a seventy percent off all joggers sale. Finally, my kind of shopping.

When we moved out the decision was made to abandon our kitchen chairs. They were extremely dated, we’d had them for about sixteen years, and were second hand before they were new to us, so Lord only knows how old they really were. Years of breakfasts, lunches and dinners, parties and coffees, baby spew and mothers group get togethers had taken it’s toll, and the only way to force ourselves to invest in new ones was to say goodbye. Which we did. Over the edge of a precipice at the tip. It was a strange feeling. Liberating, yet sad at the same time. When your undertake a project like this, the last thing you want to do is spend money replacing something you already have. And we are not keen on getting rid of stuff just because it’s old or daggy. Possibly why Hubby still keeps me around. But sometimes you just have to let go of the past so you can embrace the future.

Of all the things that have happened recently, and of all the items we have chosen, purchased and installed, it was the arrival of the two toilets that really had me celebrating. Although they are still in their boxes waiting for their homes to be completed so their new lives can commence, each and every night when I go back to the gym in our old house I proudly admire the boxes.

Marking Time

We are now about four months into it. Going by Mr. Thirty-Three Percent’s calculations that should mean we are just over half way there.

Living so close has been a God send, and Hubby has been toiling away diligently after work and on weekends so progress is consistent. Although it may not seem like a lot takes place from one week to another, there is so much that needs to happen behind the scenes first, he is really happy with his accomplishment. And I am pleasantly surprised.

The home we are staying in is a fraction smaller than our place, and I have to admit that as the weeks pass I find that sometimes things get a bit tight. The oven and stove top are positioned next to a walk way and opposite the fridge so I have to be mindful to close the door if I’m cooking, ensuring that pot handles are angled safely in order to avoid a catastrophe. Four adults roaming around the kitchen and meals area can be frustrating at the best of times, and we are a family that allow dogs inside as a general rule but even they have been banished to the yard until dinner is over. With one living room and still only one toilet, some days it’s tricky.

We have made a few changes to the Kitchen of the Amish, introducing some new wooden spoons and purchasing a StickMaster to eliminate lumps from my burnt offerings. Hubby has adjusted the doors on the fridge and freezer so they now close properly, and all the washers on the taps have been replaced so we can drift off to sleep without The Symphony of Drips playing in the background.

On the reno front quotes and purchases, for and of, various items including fixtures and fittings, tiles, flooring, windows and doors are underway. The replacement chimney has been built and fireplace installed, timber and construction materials delivered, labour and rubbish removal organised. And Hubby has moved up a rung. He shall now be known as Mr. Fifty-Seven Percent. And the appliances and furniture are yet to be accounted for.

The constant sound of banging, sanding and machinery has resonated from the house almost seven days a week, and I sometimes wonder when the neighbours are going to finally spit the dummy. To date there have only been two casualties of war. The clothesline, which apparently snapped in half during the relocation process, and the lemon tree.  Although not completely dead, the lemon tree came off second best when confronted with a moving bobcat, so only time will tell how bad the damage is with that one.

Hubby has written lots of notes and numbers on the remaining timber beams and slab, and to me, that looks like he knows what he is doing. And we have some exciting development on the plumbing front. After ten years and eight months, we now have plumbing for a second toilet. Although the actual toilet is still absent, if you were to hover over the waste outlet and use extreme accuracy, you would effectively be using the second toilet. And that in itself is pretty good going.

                 Let’s be realistic though, not everything has gone according to plan. I have heard many stories from others about their own renovation successes and dramas, so I understand this is par for the course when undertaking a project like this. There have been a number of changes along the way that have come about from simply standing in the middle of an empty room and seeing something that hadn’t been an option before. Other changes have arisen out of necessity or functionality. And one has been, well, an oversight.

The kitchen area is the one I am most excited about, and it’s ready for a complete overhaul. Enlisting in the help of his Chippy mate and a few others who are happy to get down and dirty, it was out with the old and in with the new. Doors and windows, that is. Things are beginning to take shape. Plumbing, wiring and comms are yet to be finalised, plastering will eventually happen and the cabinetry hasn’t been measured or ordered, but for the moment everything is coming along nicely.

Hubby has built many a house from scratch, demolishing existing homes and finally handing the keys to the new owners when everything is spick and span. He has revamped, reconditioned and renovated homes, offices and commercial buildings. This is not new to him. But until now, beyond the simple update of our first home and the new build of our second, I had no idea what we were in for.

I must have been an octopus in a previous life. I have spent many years mastering the art of carrying twenty shopping bags at once without assistance. Most of the time I can complete the task quite well, especially at Christmas when I'm shopping solo and believe I haven't enough purchases to warrant a trolley. For hours on end I wander aimlessly around KnifePoint until the bags begin to dig into my skin cutting off the circulation, then I have no choice but to spit the dummy and leave.

You see, I have worked out that you can use your arm like an extender-pole, sliding the bags up to increase carrying capacity. As long as the contents are relatively light and don't cause too much pressure, you should be right. Tips and Tricks #17: Remember to mix up the bags to keep the balance just right so your goods don't crash against each other causing breakage, or worse still, bust through the bottom and end up in a zillion pieces on the footpath.

In our house, I am known as the One Trip Wonder. The distance from the garage to our front door is a measly twenty-seven paces, which in reality is nothing. Except if gale force winds persist or there is torrential rain, hail, sleet or snow. Then it's not pleasant. But I still don't like multiple trips.

I know you blokes out there don't get it because you always ask us why we don't just make a second trip. But what is there to not understand. It's simple. Why make two or three trips when we only have to make one.

My motto has become this... I will carry 17 grocery bags or die trying before making two trips.  Please feel free to etch that one my headstone.

Just Pick One...

Once the decision to renovate was made and plans were finalised, the process of picking stuff out began. Now, I know there are many of you reading this that would rejoice in the process of selecting tiles and bench tops, cupboards and colours, and if you are a man undertaking a similar journey with your bride then I presume many of you just run with what she wants. Right? I think my husband would envy you right about now.

You see, I’m not too fussed about all that hoo-ha. Yes, I like things to look good and I’m not a huge fan of mission brown, but as far as the details go I’m more than happy to let the professionals do their stuff. It’s their job. And they are good at it.

Pouring over designs and pictures in magazines and on the line, Hubby has spent somewhere in the vicinity of three million hours making sure we don’t lose the essence of the original house. Built in the seventies by the parents of a dear friend, it really does feel like home and we want to keep it’s heart and soul. It just needs new organs. So when Joe our cabinet maker arrived one Friday night to discuss some of the cabinetry options, I was optimistic. We agreed on a basic style and the colour was simple. White.

Joe’s eyes lit up as he pulled a sample board from his bag of tricks, and as he spread it across the kitchen table he asked me which shade of white I’d like. Huh? My heart sank. White. Just white. But apparently that wasn’t the correct answer. It appears there are approximately 127 billion shades of white. Arctic White, Bridal White, Antique White, Frost, Snow, Linen, Ivory, Chiffon, Porcelain, Pearl. The list is endless. I took my glass and left the boys to it. Sorted.

There were two other essential elements that Hubby wanted to source before we moved out and demolition began. The flooring and the fireplace. Excellent. Now, just so you know, my working knowledge of these two things is this. One is made of wood. The other burns it. On the upside I did have some idea about the type of fireplace I wanted, so that was the easy part. The difficult part was the flooring, so off we trekked to a specialist hardware and flooring store on the other side of town to check out our options.

If I thought colours were confusing, I was now living my worst nightmare. Walking into the showroom I began to feel my pulse quicken and my skin become hot and clammy. I presume this is what it’s like for a recovering alcoholic to walk through a Dan Murphy store. Everywhere I looked there was wood. It was on the walls, on the floors, doors and benches. It came in ten widths, twenty lengths and fifty shades of brown. Dark, light, thick and thin, with or without knots or nails. But at the end of the day it was all wood.

While Hubby and The Boy pondered and perused hundreds of samples, I wandered around and tried to make sense of what I saw. The installation diagram was interesting but that was about it. I did, however, meet a young boy who was with his Dad. We got chatting and I learned that not only was he eleven, he was about as excited to be there as I was. We had a laugh, took some selfies, and rejoined our respective parties. At this point my boys had narrowed it down to three options and turned to me for a decision. Looking at the names, colours and patterns in the wood it all looked Greek to me. Until one piece took my eye.

It was multi-coloured with knots and imperfections throughout, just like the essence of our house. It actually looked like it had lived a thousand lives before being processed and turned into flooring. Perfect. Wormy Chestnut it was to be. So with that done, it was off to Masters to pick up a few items for the big move and then the best part of the morning. Coffee.

I have to admit we procrastinated a bit. Knowing you have to move out and actually doing it are two very different things. As it happened we woke up one Sunday morning and decided to just do it. Again, Mum was a God-send and came up to wrap, pack and try in vain to get me to throw out a whole lot of crap I never really needed. She succeeded a little. So over the next two weeks we made the big transition to next door. Yep. Next door. Which is brilliant when you have chickens that need caring for and your gym equipment is still in the one remaining room of the house.

I knew this day would eventually arrive but still, nothing can really prepare you for the morning you no longer wake up in familiar surroundings and you have no idea where all the light switches are. But we are finally here. So let the fun begin.