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.
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.