My goal since resigning myself to moving out so the realtor could stage my house (and hopefully rid it of the stinky cat stink) has been “do one thing a night.” And I have. I truly have. I organized, relocated and off loaded my massive porn collection. I got the gutter fixed, which has been broken for more than 2 years. My solution was to place a washtub under the place where the painter leaned their ladder and created a new, and unexpected, fount in the middle of the gutter. During the rains the water pouring from he break into the tub sounded like a charming fountain. I was very fond of it, but my realtor took a more dim view of it and so now it’s repaired and during the last few rainy nights, I have missed it.
Anyway, I have cleaned up and patched and replaced and removed all kinds of little things that as a homeowner you just ignore, but as home seller, you need to deal with.
For instance, in July, my washing machine, god love it, finally died. When we bought the house, 21 years ago, the seller insisted, in the contract, that we take the washing machine with the house. In fact, it was the only stipulation she made. It seemed odd, but we didn’t have a washer, so what the hell? And the old warhorse has ground along all these years just fine until it just gave up in the middle of one load. Super Agent Fred and I had to bail out the water and wring the clothes out and let them dry out on the patio draped over this and that. Very Beverly Hillbillies.
I had been using a laundry service ever since. They came and picked up my dirty clothes and returned them washed and folded. I liked the service so much, I just never got around to replacing the broke down machine. But people buying a new house do not want to inherit old problems, so I bought a new washer and dryer. The guys showed up yesterday to install them and that’s when I found out why the previous owner and been so insistent that we take the old one. They will not fit out of the laundry room, nor the new ones fit in.
Those tits! Them biceps! And glasses!
The owners two before us had built in a number of shelves and cabinets and closets around the house, all very beautifully constructed and which I have tried to keep cause I can appreciate how much work they represent. Some I’ve had to tear out, just because they didn’t work with how I wanted to use the room, or they were in the way, but plenty I still use and am grateful for.
One of these closets is in the little passageway between the kitchen and the laundry room. The trim work on the side in the laundry room makes the space to pass through 28 inches wide The washers, both old and new, are 28 and a half inches wide. A half fucking inch. That’s what ground the whole project to a halt. I wound up telling them to just unload the new machines in the garage and I would deal with it. They seemed very contrite as if they had let me down, when in fact, it was my architecture’s fault.
Anyway, that’s where my “Do one thing a night” program simply ground to a halt. The delivery guys left, taking their overwhelming cloud of perfume sort of with them (and why is that? Why do delivery and installer guys all wear such liberal doses of scent. Worse, why is it so often the very kind of perfume that gives me headaches?) they left, I went upstairs, took an Ativan and my pain medicine, fed Saki so he wouldn’t harass me overly and then climbed in bed. Good night and god bless.
oh. my.
What I have since come to realize is that the cabinet maker owner must have built the closet while the machine was there. Those owners were only the second ones the house had had, which leads me to believe that fucking washing machine was the original one for the house. And the house was 50 years old last year, so that washing machine has been grinding along since Ginger and Mary Ann were miraculously wearing clean outfits on Gilligan’s Island. Also, if that poor old thing had just held on nine more months, I could have sold it with the house and never even discovered this whole quagmire of insurmountable half inches.
That HAIR. Oh dear.
This morning, I called my handyman Jose. He’s My Guy. All homeowners eventually wind up with A Guy, someone who can unclog things and electrify that which is un-electric, and in general keep your house from falling apart. Jose was unfazed by my description of the catastrophe and assured me he will be over after lunch tomorrow and fix it. And he will. I have never known Jose to let me down. His esthetic choices are pretty shaky, but I have learned when to just cut in and announce a different choice in color or material. Aside from that, he is the best My Guy you could ask for.
As usual, the beefcake today is made possible by For the love of NudeMuscleMen the best naked guy site I know of. I am very grateful to them simply for existing.
mrpeenee 
Oh dear…. surely all these problems will be behind once moved. And any of your various men here are going on my tires if we get one more god damn snow storm dear.
Yes we all have A Guy to do the handy work around the house. I have been using a Guy for the last four years, to , huh, unclog things and electrify.
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How very handy it is to have a handy man. Jose is here now. I pointed out the problem, he said “OK. no problem.” and I fled. He has already hauled out the old ones and is bringing in the new. He’s only been here about half an hour.
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oh dear, only reading about ll this makes me go “gaaaaaahh …”
Good luck Mr Peenee, good luck …
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Oh, you just grind on through it, and thank god for anti-anxiety medicine,
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I have the same problem. The house we are in is 120 old this year. The doors openings to the outside are 30”. When my refrigerator died I bought a new one. On delivery I found out they couldn’t get it in. I think they could have if they took off the refrigerator doors but big box store delivery guys don’t do that sort of thing. I think Jose knows he can take the outer shell of the washer of to get it in place then put the shell back on.
There are so many things that should be done to this place to sell it but I’m leaning towards an “as is” sale. The area we in is ridiculously hot. We have a double lot. A contractor could rehab this place and put a new house on the side yard.
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do it. dragging a house out of “as is” territory so that new buyers can just waltz in with their Pottery Barn Great Room set is not worth it.
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Sorry, Mr Peenee…..kind of interesting but also kind of boring. Isn’t this pretty much what everyone undergoes moving house? By the way, does it really turn you on with these hyper-muscled dudes? I mean, really? This is just the dream-world a lot of us live in. Just give me a nice caring loving fellow, and fuck his physique, fuck if he’s got a small cock, fuck if he’s got garlic breath. Robert.
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I only come here for the articles. Rarely notice the photos.
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Perhaps this is not the blog for your high standards. I know there are not as many as there used to be, but I’m sure you can find one more to your liking, One with nice caring fellows with small dicks and stinky breath. An odd niche but probably one you won’t have to fight for.
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Excuse me, Mr Peenee, but you’re kind of missing the point. I’m talking about men who are not physically fit without big cocks, – which surely epitomises the rank and file of us, including you, I hazard. You are part of that whole absurd gay syndrome about what makes a man desirable. It’s a fake, the whole thing, and only engenders a neediness of perfection that few of us can obtain. The best of luck with your house move. Robert.
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I think you missed a trick, Peenee: when the washer broke, one (or more) of those washboards you’ve illustrated this post with could have been installed in its place. I know they come with a muscular young man attached to them, but I’m sure you could have handled them somehow?
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I’ve handled them before. They could wash the clothes on their very own built-in washboards.
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This reminds me of my childhood home. It had hardwood floors. There was wall-to-wall fugly, cheap, hideous shag carpeting in one small room. My parents bought the house and we took up the carpet. That’s when we found the previous owner had put a hot steam iron on the floor, scorching the floor boards!
Your house’s problem will take some work, but it should also be simpler (and less messy) to solve. Jose will have to carefully take the trim down, move the old appliances out and the new ones in, then put the trim back up. If that doesn’t work, call your models in to put their ‘roid rage to good use demolishing the place….
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it simply turns out Jose os netter at measuring, He wheeled the old one out and had to take one of the downstairs doors off its hinges, but that’s all.
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All this just reminds me of one of Miss Midler’s “Sophie Tucker Jokes”:
I was hanging out my washing the other day, minding my own goddam’ business, when my girlfriend Clementine leaned over the picket fence and said to me: “Soph! How come you always know when to hang out your laundry? You never get stuck in the rain like the rest of us do!” I said, “Now, Clementine, there’s a perfectly simple proposition. This is what I do. When I wake up in the morning, first thing I do is roll over and take a good look at my boyfriend, Ernie. It it’s laying on the right, I know it’s gonna be a sunny day. If it’s laying on the left, I know it’s gonna rain.” Clementine said to me, “Now, Soph, supposing it’s standing straight up in the middle?” I said to her, “Clementine, who the hell wants to do laundry on a day like that, anyway?”
Jx
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I saw The Divine in Las Vegas (ick) on my birthday and heard her tell that very joke. The dirty old broad, god love her.
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Hopefully Jose can just remove the door stops on either side to gain the necessary width without major surgery. Best wishes.
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The old ones are gone, the new ones in and Jose fixed a busted overflow pipe that I didn’t even know was broken.
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The mystery of the permanent washing machine is solved!! And Jose solved the other problem before I was going to suggest hauling them both up the hill and through the back door. He’s a genius. XO
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We could have planted geraniums in them like my East Texas white trash relatives do.
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That’s high class! In the Ozarks, they plant petunias — in either busted toilets or rusted Chevys.
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Oy. We’re going to face a variation of this agony when it comes time to sell the Condo Muscato. The kitchen, so important when it comes to selling, is perfectly presentable – it even has the requisite tile backsplash (we fancy). The problem is that the refrigerator is on its last legs, and the folks before us who put the kitchen in created a built-in space around a model that is basically no longer made. We’re either going to end up with a smaller new fridge that’s an awkward fit, or we’ll have to perform significant and unpleasant cabinet surgery. Ugh.
And thank you for so effectively (and possibly Mappish-ly) putting that very dull intruder up above in his place. Odd… it’s a name I usually rather like.
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Thank you. I thought it was odd to bother to so ineffectively diss somebody’s blog. And then to actually imply that he is above such vulgar considerations as these boys and all their meat. You don’t like it? Fine, there’s more for the rest of us.
And yes, the name did give me pause.
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The front loader photos are quite nice.
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I’ve had my fair share of half-inchers. *Turns forlornly and gazes out of the window*
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