A Measure of Disorder

I organized my closet (again -- oh, and hey, if you follow that link: I forgot all about Goody and Prudence. We'll have to see if they'd be willing to stop by for a little where-are-they-now)!

But why can I never bring myself to organize my shoes?

Well, I'll tell you why: because when I take them off, I usually stand alllll the way over here...

... and fling them.

If I'm lucky, they hit the hanging clothes and drop into the shoe-pile. If I'm not, they hit the wall and bounce out of the closet all together. If I'm really unlucky, they hit the door and make a big BANG that wakes up the girl cat and she gets pissed off and goes and beats hell out of her brother. But one of these days, I just know it, I'm going to fling a Frye boot and put a hole right through the wall, and then we'll have to fill it with Great Stuff and live with it for years.

And I know me. I know I could spend an hour (or two, or three) emptying and organizing, pairing and polishing, dividing into His and Hers and lining up -- and I'd probably enjoy doing it, too, considering it would take a lot less brain power than the work that I'm supposed to do these days. But, like I said, I know me. And I know that the next day I'd be standing in the corner and flinging my wine-stained Keds* against the wall. So why bother?

Right, Dodo?

"Right. Just please try not to fling 'em at the door? That bitch hits hard."

* They're faux-Keds, actually. In boots, I go for brand-name. But for sneakers, I go cheap.

I'm Sorry

I'm sorry I didn't post more this weekend, but I was busy doing this:

And this:

And, ah, there we go, this:

And I'm sorry I posted that obnoxious post the other day about the Bills. That's not like me, and I almost paid for it, and I deserved what I almost got. But I didn't get what I deserved, and I'm sorry to say that I'm not sorry for that.

And, last but not least, I'm sorry, but... does your closet look like this?

For that matter, does your bedroom look like this?

This is what happens in my house when you balls-up the joint compound in the closet.

Johnny takes it upon himself (eventually) and gives it the old guild-treatment.

Seriously, who takes this kind of care in their freaking closet?

Johnny does, that's who.

That's not why I love him, but it's a pretty good extra-plus. Non?

A Reminder...

What it looks like when I do it:

What it looks like when Johnny does it (same corners):

See, when we first bought this house I swore I would never attempt this kind of work -- because, as I believe I've mentioned, he's been doing it for thirty years and is really really good at it. I knew I could never live up or work as fast, so I figured it wasn't worth the fights.

Plus that meant I wouldn't have to, you know, do it.

But I got possessed. By Goody and Prudence and the Puritan Manifesto, and the notion that this was just a closet, so who cares? Johnny approved that concept before I began. Which, ahem, was by definition before he saw what havoc I was capable of wreaking.

Apparently there's a line between "just a closet" and "still part of the house we own and have to live in" -- and apparently I crossed it.

Twenty minutes into the job, shirtless and drenched in sweat (oh, did I mention it was 94 degrees yesterday?) Johnny came marching into the bedroom (where I was folding laundry, if you can believe that -- and believe me, I want credit for it) to announce:

"Don't ever try to tape anything again.

"Ever."

Yes, dear. If you insist.

Gotta Go!

I'm shutting down my computer now. Wanna know why? Ask me why!

Because Johnny's going to sand and j.c. the closet in my office and he told me to throw a sheet over the 'puter to protect it from the dust!

Gee, maybe I should have thought of that before I sanded last time...

Ta!

Day 41: Dealing With A Staunch Character.

Johnny said that after work he’d show me how to j.c. the closet proper. Set me up and teach me how. Because as much as he’s pretending it’s okay, it’s just a closet, it’s driving him mad the mess I made in there—

Oh, all right, I’ll show you a picture. Here:


Oh, what the hell, have three:

But you better appreciate it, because it’s too light in there for flash and too dark without it, so I had to find Johnny’s work light in the basement and run the extension cord to get this g-d picture just so y’all could see how incompetent I am. Happy? (and PS I didn't mean to give that last one a penis, it just came out that way. I didn't even notice it until I took this picture.)

Anyway, so that was the plan. But then…

I got The Beales Of Grey Gardens in the mail.

This is not the original movie, but an hour and a half of cobbled-together footage that was left out of the original and released straight to DVD (I believe) sometime last year. It arrived from Netflix yesterday and the plan was to watch it in chunks each morning while I was on the stairmaster.

Yeah, I watched the first chunk this morning and realized that wasn’t what was gonna happen. So when Johnny got home from work, I told him “You look thirsty, dear. Why don’t you go and have yourself a pint?” And then I had myself a good hard think.

I had to find Prudence a job she could do in front of the TV.

Aha! Remember this?

The last unpacked box, which I found when I emptied out the closet I’ve decided not to joint compound? I was supposed to unpack it one day but never got around to it, shoved it in the spare bedroom when everyone came over for the 4th of July, and then forgot all about it.

Yay! I can drag it into the bedroom and unpack it while I watch the Edies.

I wonder what I’ll find in there? Everything I’ve been missing since we moved in that never turned up anywhere else, I suppose. That Ganeesha Suzanne gave me… The hat I made for Johnny once… The mysterious missing underpants… Maybe even a couple of raccoons and the Marble Faun!

It was full of bedding. A mattress cover, two duvet covers, a lightweight quilt, a heavyweight sleeping bag, one blanket and two really gross old pillows. Dang-ity.

I threw the lightweight quilt in the wash to put on the bed in the spare bedroom, because we (hopefully) have a friend staying over next weekend and the quilt in there is just too heavy for this jungle atmosphere.

I put the pillows back in the box awaiting Johnny’s permission to throw them out. He probably won’t give it, because it’s going to turn out that those were the very first pillows he bought for himself when he was still sleeping at the Y when he first arrived on these fair shores or something. But there’s room in the attic, and keeping the nasty old things around is much better than the fight that will ensue if he finds them in the trash.

Speaking of the attic, that’s where the rest of it wound up. I’m really going to have to clean that mess up someday, too. But not until the jungle clears.

And when I do, if all the little hand towels go missing and you hear John Phillips Sousa music blasting from up there, for god's sake, come and get me!

Day 41: Accomplished.
Time: Fifteen minutes.
Cost: Nothing.
What I Am By Every Latest Thing: Pulverized

No Big Love On THIS Compound

I asked Johnny to sum up the how-tos for me again this morning, because he was not exactly crystal-clear on the finer points of the procedure yesterday. So he did.

It goes pretty much like he said yesterday: slathe it, press the tape, cut the tape, slathe it again (but, like everything else about homeownership, you really can’t know what that means until you’ve done it). And then, before he hopped out of the car he gave me one last bit of advice:

“You’re gonna need that small dropcloth,” he said, “because you’re gonna get it everywhere.”

Well, you don’t know the half, my dear.

Oh, it stuck to the walls, all right. The walls, and the ceiling, and the floor, and the ladder, and the doorjamb, and the drop cloth. And to me. Hell, I just stepped in a lump of it underneath my desk – I don’t know how the hell I managed that one…

In the beginning, I was being careful. Using the j.c. sparingly, trying to spread it really thin, with the big round knife that I’ve seen Johnny use.

Soon enough, I was slathing it on there, glopping it on and just shaving off the excess, using the smaller, flat-topped knife because at least I could make it freaking work.

I hate this. Ooh boy, do I hate this!

You slabber it all on there and it smutches out the edges of the knife and plobbles all over your head and shoulders everything. It’s always either too thick or too thin, and even when you think you’ve finally got it sort of good enough there’s always one millimeter – no matter how hard you try, there’s always at least one – where you didn’t get it quite as thick, or as wide, as all the rest, So when you press the tape to it, it sticks at first, but then as you go along slothering globble on top of the tape, it pulls up in that one spot. It won’t stay back down no matter what you do, so you end up shbirtzing the tape up with your fingernail and suppositing more gollow underneath there with your thumb. This act, in turn, makes it wovel up in other places.

(“Suppositing”: a word that I made it up. It means use your finger to — oh, I’m sure you’re capable of figuring it out.)

In addition to all of this joy, it’s also really, really fun – if you’re ever bored or have the grandkids visiting or what-not – to stand on a ladder inside a closet with no air circulation, a closet off the only room in your house with windows that don’t open (yeah, we’ll put that on the list right after “furnace,” “new roof,” and “privacy fence”), on an 84-degree July day (okay, so that’s not so bad – but that is outside) in a house that has no air conditioning (which is by preference, but still).

Plus, I’m not sure – I mean, it’s white and everything – but think that joint compound might be made of poo.

Day 40 (hey, if that’s the case then is that an olive branch or hyssop that I see Goody extending?): Accomplished
Time: 90 minutes
Cost: Nothing (unless Johnny charges me for the almost entire tub of crap I used)
Joint Compound: Pee-yew!

Day 39: That's Enough Of That

Oy yoy yoy. If you live with somebody you love, don’t smoke, okay? Or, actually, go ahead and smoke all you want, just make sure you always have a spare carton in the freezer.

Because I don’t really care about the cancer or the smell or any of the rest of it – that’s all your body and your stink and I’d just as soon keep my laws off the whole shebang. But sheesh, a smoker without smokes is a pain in the toosh – and now that’s my toosh we’re talking about.

Johnny was out of cigarettes – had been for about an hour – when I asked him to tell me how to patch the closet. He said he was going out to get them and I asked him to set me up before he left – because around here “going for cigarettes” can sometimes be code for “going for a pint” (and “going for a pint” can sometimes be code for “going for several”), so I wanted my direction before he stepped out the door.

“There you go: knives, gypsum, pot, tape, joint compound’s in the bedroom, little bit of water with this, stir it, use it fast or it’ll set up, stick, screws, slap it on there, do you want me to mix it for you?”

What? Mix? Sure. Okay. Um. I have to change my clothes and get a ladder…

“No no not a ladder, this is just for the big holes, that stuff up there you’ll use the joint compound, spread it on, cut the tape, press it in, cut it off, spread it over, do you want me to mix it for you?”

“The joint compound? I mean the gypsum? Sure, thanks. Hang on, I’ll go change and get a—I mean, I’ll just go change.”

HEAVY SIGH… feet tapping…

“You know what, Johnny? Why don’t you go ahead? I’ve got this figured out.”

Zip-bang, he was gone.

Okay now, what did he say?

Let’s see. I do remember him doing this once in the living room when we moved the couch and accidentally put a corner of it through the wall. You get a stick of some sort (paint stirrer? paint stirrer ought to do) and you put it through the hole so it’s behind the wall. Then you get a couple screws (drywall screws? drywall screws ought to do) and screw it in so it’s attached to the back of the wall. That gives the gypsum something to hold on to, otherwise it’ll just keep falling through and you’ll fill up the wall before you manage to patch the hole.

Except for, how are you supposed to hold the stick in there while you screw it? If I move the stick over enough so I can hold it with my fingers, it’s too far over to one side to even block the hole. I could make the hole bigger, make more room for me to hold the stick – but then of course the hole would be bigger and I’d probably need another stick.

Oh, I know! I’m a genius!

I went and got a rubber band, wrapped it around the center of the stick and looped my fingers through – the stick mashed up against the back of the wall quite nicely. And the top screw went in so easy! I thought it would be harder to hold the stick steady while the screw went through it but it just went whistling on through. Now I just need the other screw and—

Plonk.

Hm. Apparently the screw only went whistling through the wall. The stick, still unattached, was now on the floor between the walls with all the spider poop.

So I get another stick, another rubber band. This time I’m more careful that the stick actually be touching the screw when I hit it with the power screwdriver. This time I remember about how rubber bands actually stretch and realize maybe they weren’t the best choice for this job (although I still haven’t come up with a better answer), but once it’s sort of attached I can sort of get my finger behind it and give it a sort of tug. Good enough.

Sort of.

I had put the top screw through the first, whistling hole – so I had something to go by – but the second screw is trickier. This one keeps bouncing off the stick behind it and going wonky on me. Finally – after much sweating and swearing – I get the screw to go through the stick and stay there. Really. It’s not the sturdiest construction job I ever saw, but this is just a patch job in the back of a spare-room closet: the screws only have to hold until the plaster sets.

Now, plaster… what’d he say… little bit of water… how are you supposed to scoop out the… ugh, not with your hand I guess… oops, that’s probably not something that ought to be left to get wet and harden on the bathroom tile floor… okay, now that that’s all vacuumed up I’ll try pouring … how much, though? Stir it with what? This knife? Well, the bigger one won’t fit so might as well…

Hey, that looks like stuff! Like real plaster-patching stuff! I think I mixed it up just right by chance on my first try!

So I got the bigger knife and I took my tub into the closet. I gave it one last stir and took a healthy glob up on the knife, put it to the newly stick-filled hole and—

Plonk.

Huh. Apparently all that wrangling with the sticks had made those holes in the drywall just that much bigger than the screws.

So, balls. Swearing and sweating and stomping because those were of course the last two screws in the drill case (well, not technically, but even I knew enough not to use 50 pound masonry screws), and I’ve already mixed up the plaster and it’s going to set before I can get another g-d stick in there. But standing here staring at it isn’t doing anything so I might as well dump it out and go down cellar for another couple sticks and screws.

But I forgot to dump it out, and the second stick didn’t take as long to put in there as the first one, and the plaster was still good when I was ready for it. Well, almost good. Good enough, anyway. Or at least I thought so. And Johnny wasn’t home.

So I filled up that old hole (the stick stayed in place this time) but I ran out of the almost-dried up plaster so I had to go mix more before I could finish with the other two, smaller, stickless holes.

Oh. Hey, I should’ve just filled them with this when it was wet and then made more for that first hole.

The second batch didn’t go so well. I thought I was a pro so I sloshed water in there and slished plaster dust, and it came out like plaster soup. So I sloshed dust and slished water and by the time I had the right consistency I had way too much plaster. I had about a cup’s worth, and I needed a tablespoon or two. So I spread it out where it was needed, then I tossed a little extra on the big hole for good measure (I don’t know if I was supposed to put wet stuff over half-dry plaster or not; if it doesn’t come out okay, no telling).

I set the pot of plaster down to dry and (eventually) be thrown away, and went into the other room for the bucket of joint compound to start the up-on-the-ladder, spread and tape and cut and whatever-he-said stuff.

But then I thought: You know what?

I've had enough of this.

(For today, I mean, Goody. I'll j.c. tomorrow...)

Day 38: Accomplished
Time: 25 minutes
Cost: Nothing
Why I Have A New-Found Respect For Pamela DesBarres: Plaster Casters

Day 37: Plugging Away

Every day this week I’ve been meaning to get started on the closet. But every day this week I've forgotten to ask Johnny before he left for work what “getting started on the closet” might entail. And by the time he would get home, I’d have found something else to do that day – so then why bother asking?

Finally, this morning, I remembered. He wasn’t all the way awake yet, but I remembered to ask him and then it was his job to remember after he’d had a cup of tea. He didn’t, but I (for once) remembered to remind him:

Wash with bleach, let dry, then sand.

Well, I knew that. I just thought there’d be another step or two involved.

In the car on the way to dropping him at work, Johnny reminded me of the fact that we had no bleach. I knew we had no bleach because – say it with me – I sprayed all the bleach we had, quart by hateful quart, all over that pain-in-my door a month ago. And no, I haven’t bothered to replace it. Because I haven’t needed it yet, so why would I?

“But that’s okay,” I told him. “I’ll just pick some up on my way home. Then I can wash it before I go to work, let it dry while I’m there, and then sand it after—Oh.”

I wasn’t dressed.

This:
… is what I was wearing. And that’s it. No shoes, no bra, no nothing. I did have my wallet, though, in case I (god forbid) broke down and needed to show my AAA card to the tow truck guy. (Apparently, however, I never thought through what else I might be showing to the tow truck guy if the car should (god forbid) break down.)

So, balls. I can’t get bleach on the way home. Which means I have to either go home, get dressed, and go back out, or else just pick it up while I’m at work, which means most likely not being able to wash and sand today. Except hey wait a second—

SCREECH

“Johnny, you’re dressed. Would you mind running in the Kwik-E-Mart and picking up a jug of bleach? We just so happen to be stopped right here in front of it…”

So phew. I get home, and I set to.

Bleach, bucket, water – check. Johnny said about ¼ cup per gallon, so – glug glug glug – that looks about right. Rags, rags, rags… Up in the attic! Got ’em. Scissors. Okay, check on the rags. Ladder for the high parts? Check. Now go!

Hang on, am I supposed to be really scrubbing, or just kind of wiping it off? I forgot to ask him. Well, wiping it off sounds good. La la…

Ew. Why do the shelves smell like cat pee?

I’m almost done, and since I’m on my hands and knees here I figure I might as well go ahead and wash the floor – and hell, might’s well do the door, too, while I’m at it, because we all know I’m not going to be stripping that bastard any time in the near future. Oh, hey, speaking of the floor, take ye a gander:

Okay, so I forgot to snap this picture before it got covered with sand-the-walls dusty crap (and I’m hardly going to go vacuuming just for you lot), but still, you can kind of see. My point is: pretty nice floor, eh? This is the only bit of it in the entire house that was never painted or lino’d over, and somehow I never noticed it till now.

(P.S. I wouldn’t normally recommend washing your hardwood with a solution of bleach, but desperate (or lazy) times call for desperate (or you-know) measures. Right?)

Where was I? Oh yeah, don’t do this with your wash bucket:

Nothing bad happened. I’m just saying. Not a good idea.

Okay, I’m finished. Now, Johnny said I’d need to dry it with a fan…

Have I mentioned yet that there’s just one outlet in my office? I probably haven’t. Yeah, the fridge is in one socket and there’s a power outlet in the other – with one of those convert-two-prongs-to-three-prongs things. The computer, printer, monitor, light, and cable-conversion thingy are all plugged into the power strip – which sometimes just falls out of the socket in the wall because it’s too heavy for the convert-two-prongs-to-three-prongs thing.

The point is, I have to get the super-duper extension cord that Johnny bought (“for me”) at Job Lot:

and run it

all the way

into the kitchen.

Oh balls. I should probably have put the fan up on a chair or something. Okay, fine, go get a chair out of the kitchen… trip and unplug the extension cord… set the fan up… plug it back in… resolve to tread carefully around the house for the next half-hour until I (thankfully) have to leave for work.

Oh crap. I forgot to wash the door.

More rag more bleach more bucket (which at least means one more occupant of the bottomless ragbag can go – yoink – into the trash)

And in the shower and dressed and off to work.

The sanding part, as much as I hate sanding, was uneventful. Except for the fact that when it was over I remembered this horrid little bit:

In case you can’t tell by the photo, it’s the hanger pole (“hanger pole” – what do you call it? I know it has a name, and I know I know it, but I can’t remember. You know what I mean: the pole you hang the hangers on). And it’s disgusting. Covered in masking tape (masking tape! Who uses masking tape for anything anymore?) and positively black on top from contact with wire hangers – or else just from spider poo.

I’ll work my tail off for the rest of it, but this part – this part? – I’m throwing out. I'll buy a dowel from Home Depot and anyone who has a problem with that – anyone who thinks this part might be original to the house and therefore must be saved – feel free to come on over.

I’ll hit you with it.

Day 37: Accomplished
Time: 75 minutes
Cost: $1.50 for the bleach. Which we needed anyway. So never mind.
Realizing That I Didn't Have To Do The Door After All Because It Has To Match The Room And Not The Closet: Priceless

Day 34: Didn't I Tell You, Tina...?

I got into the knob-less closet.

I didn't get a chance to start doing anything around here today until before I knew it Johnny was calling to be picked up from work. The weather is too gross and sticky for staining or painting, too gross and sticky for any work harder than staining or painting, and Goody (who, by the way, is pissed at having been locked down celler for the weekend) wouldn't let me make my very first day back also be my very first self-declared day off.

So on the way to go get Johnny I decided if I could get into the closet, that would be enough. It might not be that hard -- it might take all of thirty seconds -- but if there's one thing I've come to know about this house it's that you never know.

Lesson: Magic flowery screwdriver does not open handle-less doors.

Well, I'm stumped.

Prudence...

Oh, fine.

Wait a minute, wait a minute, I know! All the doorknobs in this house are the same, and original -- they pulled the trim off the windows in the dining room and replaced it with horrid plywood crap, but somehow every single doorknob in the house made it through a hundred years unscathed. Well, almost every single...



The point is, I can take one off of somewhere else and poke it through the hole, then give it a twist and open the door just like -- well, like opening a door.

I know where I'll rob the knob from, too.


Not a door that's getting pulled shut accidentally. Poor old thing. Just the thought of reaching up there to take her down makes my back go into twelve different kinds of spasm -- lord knows if I'll ever be able to actually put her to use again. But in the meantime I give her a rub with Murphy's oil twice a year or so and let her know that she'd still loved.

One screw on the knob was stripped and one was wedged behind the hardware (if there's one thing that I've come to know about this house...), but still it only took a minute and a half to pull it off. Another thirty seconds to open the door and screw it into it's new home...

And oh, crap, here comes Goody.

The thing is, Johnny did mention on the way home that he was going to paint the bathroom finally (wahoo!) as soon as the humidity broke. Who knows when that might be, but it would be nice if this closet was ready to paint while he had the rollers out. If I get it clear today, I can wash it out and sand it down tomorrow...

So that's how the wire hangers got thrown out. Johnny wouldn't have let me do it if he'd known, because, I don't know, he'd want to make soup out of them or something. But they were mostly here when we bought the house. He actually made me save them when I pulled off all the moldy-oldy clothes when we moved in. And they've been rotting in this closet ever since. So this time I didn't even ask.

As a -- oh, let's call it a concession -- I did save all the plastic ones. Even though all the closets are full and there's nothing left to hang. I think that's mighty big of me. Who knows, maybe they'll come in handy when this closet's finished, for all the other moldy-oldy, making-soup clothes that Johnny's bound to be dragging in. And where'd I put them in the meantime?

Yoink:

Scary cubby under the stairs.

Hey, I never said I could keep the entire place in order all at the same time!

Oh, speaking of order. Today I also did this:

Oh no wait, I mean, hang on... Okay, I did this:

Watermelon on the freshly-tidied desk... Who would do that?

Not me, that's for sure.

Day 34 (I may be confused about that but I'm sticking with it): Accomplished

Time: ?? 40 minutes?? I forgot to count. I'm out of practice.

Cost: Nothing, if I can keep the watermelon off the keyboard. I mean -- what watermelon?

Being A Weather Whim Away From Getting Two Painting Tasks Accomplished: Priceless, provided nobody tells Himself about the wire hangers...

Day 29, Project 12: Happy, Nana?

I don't have a "before" picture -- because it turns out when you check the box that says "delete photos from camera after copying", it actually, you know, does. Same thing happens when you highlight all the pictures in your folder and hit "delete." Go figure.

So I don't have a before picture and I don't have as many other pithily-commented illustrations as I'd planned (and maybe, just maybe, when I deleted all my photos after spending an hour carrying heavy boxes -- of albums, no less -- to the basement on a day I didn't feel like doing anything at all... maybe, just maybe, I squeezed out a tear or two). But I cleaned out the closet in my office.

Found a lot of good stuff, too.

Found lots of things for hanging on the walls (potential projects for the next feel-like-doing-nothing day, t'ank god).

Including this beautiful thing:

Which I went ahead and hung already. Because really, how can you be expected to write without an Afro'ed, eight-ball shooting, Schlitz-drinking disco muse? Now maybe I'll finally be able to get some work done...

Ooh, speaking of books (which I know I wasn't, but anyway), I found this:

...which I'm not entirely sure was ever ours, and which I think I might be better off to throw away. It ain't exactly current (it boasts "covers 1987 code; the next code will be the 1990 edition") and, as I've proven over and over again, a little knowledge can be a kangaroo (which rhymes with dangerous if you pronounce one of them incorrectly, and they'll both kick the shit out of you if you try to pin 'em down).

I thought to run a contest to guess what this thing is, but then I realized even I'd have no idea, and the dang thing belongs to me. Any thoughts?


It's my old, "portable," Macintosh IIsi. It's a pre-internet machine, so I haven't used it in, I guess, ten years. But I love the dear old thing, and I've never been able to bear the thought of letting go. Besides, I wouldn't know how to throw away an old computer if I wanted to. (Although, now that I'm looking at it, I think there might be some old poetry in there from the first time I ever fell in love. Hmmm... Sledgehammer, anyone?)

Ooh, and I found this:

It's a leather case for videos or cassettes or something (yeah, it's a little dusty: so?). But when I opened it up, and I don't know why I did that, I found these:


Shelf brackets! Yeesh. See, before I decided that I wasn't doing anything today, the shelves were going to be my project. I wasn't certain where the shelves themselves were, but the brackets, I knew, were in a grocery bag in the leftover kitchen cabinet in the attic.

Obviously not.

Whatever. For today I'm done. All that's left to go through is this box:

Which I dragged out to the living room and will tackle while I watch Rocky Balboa. I believe -- yes, I'm certain -- that this is the very last box left in the house from when we moved in three years ago. If boxes of record albums can be excepted, that is. Wow. I wonder what I'll find in there?

In fact, oh my gosh! This closet was the last bit of untouched space. I didn't even think about that fact until now. I guess you could say that, with this little project, the house is now officially 100% ...

Ours:

It's needs a good scrubbing and a coat of paint -- but hey, you know what?

So do I.

Day 29: Accomplished (thanks, Nana, for the nudge!).

Time: Including the temper tantrum and having to re-take the pictures (oh you bet it counts): 95 minutes.

Cost: Nothing.

Owning My House All The Way Through Front To Back And Top To Bottom After Three Hellacious Years: Pro tempore...