No Rest for the Wicked
It's Saturday.
The upper two floors are, for the most part, clean.
The lower level...not so much.
Last weekend, I painted myself into a corner in our family room. I've never liked the layout of the space, and last Sunday evening, I started moving furniture. I ended up completely overwhelmed with no idea as to where to put shit, and eventually had to just stop to keep my brain from short-circuiting. Meaning for the past week, the family room has been reminiscent of Ground Zero and mostly uninhabitable. And this situation must be remedied this weekend because next Saturday, we host Bob's birthday bash. Which, although it will mostly be outdoors, will certainly spillover inside.
I have to figure out furniture placement. This is going to be no easy task. At the south end of the room, you have the staircase that connects this level with the main level. Directly north of the staircase on the opposite end of the room is the fireplace. Smack in between the two is a fucking support beam. While I appreciate the beam's purpose in keeping the upstairs upstairs, I don't appreciate what it does (or doesn't do) for the aesthetics of the room. I want the fireplace to be the "focal point," but how does that affect t.v. viewing? Not to mention my desire to keep the "kiddie" area somewhat separate and figure out how a huge-ass air hockey table fits into this design.
I have to do something with the desk area. Suffice to say I am very, very close to packing up a huge Rubbermaid storage container full of our stacks of paper, driving it all to my office (because there are scanners there, not here) and scanning every last scrap to a pdf file so I can burn the whole fucking mess of it. And after I do that, I have to convince my husband and firstborn they don't really need to save EVERY. FUCKING. SCRAP. OF PAPER.
I have to "weed the toy garden." That's my euphemism for "go through Bob's shit because he's not here to object when I throw away 600 pounds of plastic crap he doesn't even give a second thought to until I put it in a Hefty bag." And there's no need to save toys for his younger brother, because I'm sure the grandparents will see to it that child wants for nothing.
I have to replace one of the acoustic ceiling tiles in the lower level bathroom. Because when my husband decided to start storing the huge bag of dog food (which he never closes) in the closet in said bathroom, he extended an invitation to some sort of rodent, who chewed through one such tile in his haste to get to the goodies. Fortunately, there are several of these new tiles in our garage--thanks, previous owners. (The dog food has since been relocated, and the husband admonished for not closing the damn bag after he opens it.)
I have to replace the shitty plastic tiles that are falling off the wall of the upstairs hall bath at an alarming rate. Because the previous owners weren't handy. And by the way, plastic tiles? Come on. But until I can afford to replace the whole business with one of those one-piece fiberglass tub/shower wall enclosure things, I'm just going to have to keep sticking the tiles back up there when they fall. Ah, the joys of homeownership.
I have to supervise my husband on the following tasks: re-installing the hooks he hastily hung (look! alliteration!) in the upstairs hall closet that fell a month ago; helping me move furniture in the family room; and hanging bulletin boards (also left in our garage by the previous owners) in said family room in the kid section (on which to hang Bob artwork).
And now, I have to get started. Yaaaaaay.
The upper two floors are, for the most part, clean.
The lower level...not so much.
Last weekend, I painted myself into a corner in our family room. I've never liked the layout of the space, and last Sunday evening, I started moving furniture. I ended up completely overwhelmed with no idea as to where to put shit, and eventually had to just stop to keep my brain from short-circuiting. Meaning for the past week, the family room has been reminiscent of Ground Zero and mostly uninhabitable. And this situation must be remedied this weekend because next Saturday, we host Bob's birthday bash. Which, although it will mostly be outdoors, will certainly spillover inside.
I have to figure out furniture placement. This is going to be no easy task. At the south end of the room, you have the staircase that connects this level with the main level. Directly north of the staircase on the opposite end of the room is the fireplace. Smack in between the two is a fucking support beam. While I appreciate the beam's purpose in keeping the upstairs upstairs, I don't appreciate what it does (or doesn't do) for the aesthetics of the room. I want the fireplace to be the "focal point," but how does that affect t.v. viewing? Not to mention my desire to keep the "kiddie" area somewhat separate and figure out how a huge-ass air hockey table fits into this design.
I have to do something with the desk area. Suffice to say I am very, very close to packing up a huge Rubbermaid storage container full of our stacks of paper, driving it all to my office (because there are scanners there, not here) and scanning every last scrap to a pdf file so I can burn the whole fucking mess of it. And after I do that, I have to convince my husband and firstborn they don't really need to save EVERY. FUCKING. SCRAP. OF PAPER.
I have to "weed the toy garden." That's my euphemism for "go through Bob's shit because he's not here to object when I throw away 600 pounds of plastic crap he doesn't even give a second thought to until I put it in a Hefty bag." And there's no need to save toys for his younger brother, because I'm sure the grandparents will see to it that child wants for nothing.
I have to replace one of the acoustic ceiling tiles in the lower level bathroom. Because when my husband decided to start storing the huge bag of dog food (which he never closes) in the closet in said bathroom, he extended an invitation to some sort of rodent, who chewed through one such tile in his haste to get to the goodies. Fortunately, there are several of these new tiles in our garage--thanks, previous owners. (The dog food has since been relocated, and the husband admonished for not closing the damn bag after he opens it.)
I have to replace the shitty plastic tiles that are falling off the wall of the upstairs hall bath at an alarming rate. Because the previous owners weren't handy. And by the way, plastic tiles? Come on. But until I can afford to replace the whole business with one of those one-piece fiberglass tub/shower wall enclosure things, I'm just going to have to keep sticking the tiles back up there when they fall. Ah, the joys of homeownership.
I have to supervise my husband on the following tasks: re-installing the hooks he hastily hung (look! alliteration!) in the upstairs hall closet that fell a month ago; helping me move furniture in the family room; and hanging bulletin boards (also left in our garage by the previous owners) in said family room in the kid section (on which to hang Bob artwork).
And now, I have to get started. Yaaaaaay.
posted by Mitzi Green at 11:36 AM
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