Rude Mechanicals Press Blog

I’ve no idea if this is venomous…and don’t want to find out the hard way.

My realtor tells me the market has been incredibly soft for the last two months, and that with the summer coming to a close, he expects things to pick up. I have a showing tomorrow (perhaps they’ll be charmed into offering by the flowering clematis), then house stuff is on hiatus until Labor Day.

I’ll be in North Carolina for a week to assist in Christopher Schwarz’s tool chest class at The Woodwright’s School. I’m the saw bitch (my term; not his). While everyone else is inside the air-conditioned shop merrily chopping dovetails, I’ll likely be outside on the front stoop in the August heat crosscutting stock. I will look bedraggled – but my triceps will look awesome after a few days of hard (but fun) labor.

The intern in my attic will be in the house (she’s staying through mid-October), but I can’t (or at least don’t) expect her to have to deal with keeping things in tip-top shape, or to rush home with just an hour’s notice to clean cat boxes, whip the sheets off the couch (defense against the dark arts of cat hair) and weed the garden.

But when I return, I’ll have less competition; the house a few blocks away that is similar to mine in style, size and price is under contract. I’m simultaneously glad it is (probably) no longer available and hurt that whomever offered on it didn’t like mine more. Maybe “my” “feral” cats scared them away?

I’m decidedly un-hip, but my neighborhood, Northside, is quite hip indeed – or perhaps “bohemian” is the better term. For years, it was touted as an “emerging” neighborhood; when I bought my house, it was at best in the nascent stages of a renaissance. Twelve years ago, I was one of the few people on my street who had a mortgage; almost everything was rental, and most homes were rundown. Very few folks talked to one another.

Today, the majority of my neighbors are homeowners (or to be precise, we all owe the bank money) who are young professional couples (some with young children, for whom I occasionally babysit, and many with pets, for whom I often petsit).  We all know each other by name, and usually get together once a month for a potluck dinner, with hosting duties rotating among our homes. It’s a congenial and vibrant area, and if I do move, I will miss the many people on the street who’ve become my friends in the last several years.

Over the the course of decade, more and more houses in the neighborhood have been renovated (though there are plenty remaining that could use some love). My home is four blocks off the main drag, where there are many new and nifty restaurants, a weekly farmer’s market, the best record store in town (seriously – Shake It is worth a visit if you’re ever in the area), a great neighborhood coffee shop, art galleries, family activity centers and more – including a handful bars and taverns within stumbling distance.

But it seems spending time in said bars – in conjunction with a “For Sale” sign – is an invitation to be rude. Now I’ve been known to weave home from my favorite adult establishment (Northside Tavern) from time to time, but I’ve never been so inebriated as to think it’s OK to peep in someone’s windows, or to climb on whatever is handy to peer over a 6′ privacy fence. For Sale sign or no.

It is, admittedly, somewhat amusing overhearing drunk people trying to be quiet – but not at 2:30 a.m. under my bedroom window, at the junction of my chain-link fence (covered in ivy) and privacy fence.

Last Saturday, a couple on their way home decided they wanted an unscheduled showing of my backyard (they weren’t casing the house; I could hear them “whispering” about wanting to come see it). The man decided to climb on the ivy for a look over the tall fence (mind you, it was pitch dark), while the woman tried to see in the adjacent dining room windows (where there are curtains). That’s when I stuck my head out the window to say hello. And that’s when the guy screamed and slipped, with his legs straddling the fence. Oops. And ouch. The woman tried to run away, but fell down. After a few minutes of recovery, they both slunk away after muttering apologies. I rather doubt they’ll make a viewing appointment.

Too bad, really – they were headed past my house on what I can only assume was their way home; clearly, being closer to the hip bars would be beneficial. On the other hand, if they often stumble home drunk-whispering, my friendly neighbors might not be so friendly.

It occurs to me that my wish for a new (old) house is my version of a midlife crisis. I turned 45 today, and if family genetics bear out, that is indeed about midway of this my mortal life. Hell – behind the house I want there’s even a forest savage, rough and stern, of sorts.

Moving on from Dante to a far more alarming text…the 37-page inspection, complete with pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph (or more) under each.

Yesterday, I had the general inspection of the house I want to buy, and this morning, I got the report. It would be terrifying to read, except that I was already aware of the crazy amount of work the place would entail.

My plans and budget can accommodate several large-ticket items including a new roof (and parts that connect to it), exterior painting and a modicum of foundation repairs, as well as a few less-pricey things (glass for the dozen or so cracked windows, paint for every room) and a handful of inexpensive items (IcyHot patches, ibuprofen).

But it seems there may be enough water issues to necessitate re-plumbing the entire house; I wasn’t expecting that. (I won’t know for sure unless/until I get a plumber to have a look). And unless/until I get a structural engineer to look at the foundation, I don’t know what needs to be repaired, how it would be repaired or what it would cost.

Plumbing and foundation work alone could put an irrevocable dent in the budget.

Nonetheless I still love the house, and am willing to live with no kitchen cabinets and no dishwasher, and with a wholly unattractive bathroom for a long time if that’s what it takes. (I’d have to replace the washing machine right away though; it looked as if several dozen generations of furry creatures had lived and died in there.)

Of course, none of this matters if mine doesn’t sell, and quickly.

Maybe I should set my sights on a midlife crisis Audi TT as a backup. Or a VW Microbus; I could live in that.

Where’s Virgil when you need him?

I’m selling my house not because I want a new one, but because I want a particular new one – a 1915 Craftsman-style home, for which I’m currently under contract contingent upon mine selling. (It may have been the yard art – among other things – that made me love it).

I’ve decided to go ahead on Tuesday with the inspection on my potential new home because there’s a distinct possibility that, although I love way the house looks superficially (OK – I love the way it could look, with a decade or so of work), it needs more than I can handle in terms of skill, or funds to pay those who have them. I’ve decided it’s best to have things checked out now by an expert; if the house needs more work than I think it does and I wait for mine to go under contract to discover that, I could end up homeless.

The object of my affections has many problems that are easy to identify with even the most cursory of looks (which in hindsight is typical of many of my former objects of affection).

Some of the soffits and fascia boards are rotted or completely missing; I need to find out if any additional problems (an entrenched raccoon colony, for example, or worse, rotted joists) lurk behind the visible damage.

All the box gutters that I can see from the windows need relining, and one of them is detached from the roof edge. There doesn’t appear to be water damage on the wall beneath, but if there is, there goes the budget.

The roof almost certainly needs replacing.

There’s a hole hacked in a kitchen wall through which one can see a hole in what I think is a waste vent stack (better than in the waste stack itself, I suppose); I’m pretty sure that pipe hole can’t be patched – but how difficult (read expensive) that pipe is to replace, I’ve no idea. And really, I’ve no idea if that pipe is connected to anything at all. (The plaster patching? Easy.)

And there are other smaller (at least I think they’re smaller) visible issues for which I need an expert to dig (metaphorically or actually) below the surface.

I hope my realtor doesn’t see this; he would not be happy about having his backside on display.

But there’s one big potential downfall – literally. The back of the house is, somewhat oddly for the style and location, constructed on pillars. I’ve checked the Sanborn maps (thank you Cincinnati public library for making them accessible online), and this appears to be the original footprint and construction. The side fenestrations in that part of the structure are out of square, so the windows can’t completely close (I’d have to come up with some creative solutions…beyond remaking all the windows out of square). There are obviously some settling issues – but I don’t know how bad they are, or if they’re likely to be exacerbated with frightening celerity. It doesn’t help that the pillars are clad in wood; I can’t see what they’re made of or what’s going on beneath.

There are also some stair-step cracks (not big ones) following the overlay brick pattern of the poured-concrete foundation of the main structure, but on the inside (where the concrete is exposed), it doesn’t appear to be a major issue – but I know next-to-nothing about structural engineering. (Small cracks might be bad; big cracks are definitely bad. That’s the sum-total of my expertise.)

And the entire house needs painting, inside and out. I can do the inside; for the outside, I’d hire the same outfit that did such a fast and excellent job on my current home (that would be Forest Hills Painting, in case anyone in the Cincinnati area needs a recce).

So on Tuesday, I hope to find out what I may be getting myself into. And I’ll find out if I really want to get into it.

What I’m most anxious about is that the inspection will reveal the house needs only the work I’ve already identified and for which I’ve budgeted – then, I’ll be in full-on panic mode about mine selling in time for the move to happen (no, I’m not revealing the timeline). If mine doesn’t sell, I’ll have basically thrown away a significant chunk of money. Far worse, though, is that I will be desolate.

But should my (potential) dream house reveal itself as a nightmare, well, that’s money well spent – while I still have the option of maintaining ownership of the solid roof now over my head (which already features relined box gutterss, and new fascia boards and soffits).

Whether or not I end up moving (my fingers remain crossed it will happen), it seemed appropriate to begin divesting myself of stuff I don’t use, wear or need – and even culling those things I do use or wear, but have far too many of (T-shirts and baking pans, for example).

I’m chagrined to admit it, but the stereotype about women and shoes? Yeah, it fits me. So I’ve been going through my collection of footwear, determined to toss pairs if I’ve not worn them in at least two years. Note that as an excuse for hanging on to those I still like, for the last couple weeks I’ve been consciously wearing into the office shoes unsuitable for my job, then changing into “shop shoes” as soon as I get in. (Also, I’ve forgotten how to walk in high heels.)

I’m down from five to two springform pans, one bundt pan from three and four cookie sheets instead of eight. I now have only enough coffee mugs to last me two weeks instead of a month (that’s not hyperbole; I’ve no idea how I acquired so many).

I’ve even – gasp – started donating books to the library to sell at their annual fund-raising event. It took some serious talking to myself in the mirror, but I finally acceded to the realization that I would never again crack open Franz Fanon’s “The Wretched of the Earth” and that one general thesaurus really is sufficient. (I need to have another little chat with myself, though…there are still piles of books everywhere, some that haven’t been read since my undergraduate days.)

But I can’t seem to cull my collection of tools. I swigged deeply enough of the Anarchist’s Kool-Aid to build the chest, but it seems I need at least another firkin of the juice. No way am I giving up a dovetail saw.

Also, I’m keeping my cats.

p.s. “Light Enough to Travel” by the Be Good Tanyas is a must-listen.

Let’s take a little trip up to the top of my house, to where I (might) need help.

I’ve mentioned before that if my house doesn’t sell (though of course I’m still hoping fervently that it does…and does so in time for me to get the “new” one I want), I’ve two projects left here I could tackle.

One is the kitchen, for which I’ve a fairly solid idea of what I’d do (see here). The other is my third floor (atop which sits a gabled roof so there are all kinds of crazy wall/ceiling issues), for which I’ve but a vague plan … not really a plan at all. Just a collection of disparate possibilities, all of which seem pricey and not DIY-type stuff. I mean…I’m good, but not THAT good. And I hate plumbing and am scared of major electric work.

Right now, the third floor is broken up into three rooms that are accessed off a small landing, plus a full bath…sort of. The toilet and tub are tucked into the front of the house under the eaves of the front window. The sink, however, is around the corner in what I call “the room where things go to die.” So the sink plumbing backs up to all the other plumbing, and I can’t figure out even to where I would move it if I felt like getting out the pipe wrench.

And anyway, there’s no room in the bathroom proper to add a sink. I’d also like to add a shower – which won’t work with the tub tucked under the window. But, the walls between the two could come down with little trouble…other than the plumbing

One of the other rooms is the guest room our company intern is renting for the summer (she apologizes for the mess). The walls in that room are load bearing, so they’re not moving anywhere (I have neither the energy, expertise or money for that). Plus, the single air vent on the third floor is in that room, so it’s the only one up there that can be billed as a bedroom. Any work therein will be purely cosmetic…like rethinking the Venetian plaster effect I applied 10 years ago (ditto on the closet wall treatment below).

The return for the bedroom air vent is in on the landing (so not very effective), and crosses partially in front of the bathroom door, which means that space is off limits…unless I move the return – which would, I think, be the easiest way to slightly enlarge the bath enough to make room for a sink and shower.

Anyway, the ducts in this old house really aren’t sufficient for heating and cooling four floors above the furnace and blower. To make the entire third-floor space comfortably livable, I’d need to investigate HVAC wall units; they’re pricey, but effective, efficient and quiet.

Alongside the guest room is my crazy-big walk-in closet (and no, you needn’t comment on the fact that I’ve too many clothes, thanks). The front of the closet is divided from the “sink room” (a.k.a. where things go to die) by simple slats – those could easily be removed to make the front room larger, which could then possibly be reconfigured into a bedroom while also carving out a little extra space for the bath.

So here are my thoughts – keeping in mind that I don’t know how to do some of this stuff. Looking again at the landing (left). I’m thinking I can remove the return (and install three of these nifty wall HVAC units instead, one in each room), then move the bathroom wall out to where the right edge of the closet door is now, and push the bathroom door as far to the right as possible. That would give me 40″ square in which to install a small shower alongside the toilet, and a sink could go just inside the door. Of course, to do that, I’d have to rip up the floor to run the plumbing, but I wouldn’t miss the peel-n-stick vinyl. I’d also have to learn how to reroute plumbing. Then there’s the backer board, drywall and a lot of tiling. (I actually like installing tile; what I hate is grouting.)

The wall between the front room (where things go to die) would be pushed back into the closet, and the closet door would become the access to that room (which would be done up as a guest room, thereby forcing me to get rid of all the crap therein…and thereby providing another comfortable room to “rent” to WIA visitors). The slightly smaller closet would be accessed through the front room.

So to all of you who said a kitchen remodel was a major pain in the tuckus, I give you my third floor. I’m betting the kitchen is the easier of the two potential projects.

But let’s say I stay here and have both of these projects to keep me entertained (and increase my usable space, home value, etc.) – I still won’t have a proper shop. And no, Christopher Schwarz, I do not wish to give up my dining room…though it may come to that.

“I pray thee peace, I will be flesh and blood;
For there was never yet philosopher
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods,
And made a push at chance and sufferance.”
— William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

I am no philosopher, yet Leonato’s metaphor holds; I’ve been waking every morning with an aching jaw from severe bruxism, and by day, I clench my teeth instead.

This has for me in times of stress been a recurring problem for years. In the three months I spent flat-out studying for my master’s exams, I cracked two fillings from grinding at night. Just before my doctoral exams, I  cracked a tooth instead, and ended up with a crown. (Both these despite a mouth guard).

(There have been several work-related periods over the years that have caused similar issues…but I really shouldn’t go into those.)

Right now, I’m woefully behind on writing my dissertation (“Much Ado” is one of “my” plays, by the by), and while I’d like to blame my current stress and resulting sore jaw on that (and perhaps that’s part of it), I’m fairly certain that my house not yet having garnered any interest is what’s currently causing me to wear away what’s left of my enamel.

As per usual in my life (waah), I think it’s mostly due to poor timing. In the early spring, houses in my neighborhood of similar size and state were selling (and at much higher prices than mine) almost overnight. I (perhaps foolishly) waited until the summer sales doldrums to list. Had I not, however, I’d have had two rooms in dire need of painting and an overabundance of stuff junking up the place. My timing…it was off.

But the shockingly fast sales in April and May filled me with false hope – I was certain I’d be packing by now (packing more, really – I have several boxes of overflow baking dishes and the like stored in a friend’s basement, and many of my home-shop tools are currently in my tool chest at work).

It’s been three weeks since my house went on the market, and while intellectually I realize that’s not much time at all as these things go, dentally it feels like far longer.

“Why, this is a very midsummer madness.”— William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night (another of “my” plays)

I tried a new, though inadvertent, sales tactic today: locking the viewer in the house.

The realtor and her client arrive 20 minutes before the scheduled appointment, just as I was finishing my final “show prep” (which means turning on all the lights, and whisking from the couch the sheet I’ve been using to keep the cat hair from accumulating on the upholstery).

So I invited them in as I hurriedly shut and locked the downstairs windows, grabbed my purse, stepped out and locked the door behind me in a bit of a fluster.

One needs a key to unlock the door from the inside – and because I was still home when they arrived, the realtor didn’t retrieve the one from the lock box. The lock box on the outside of the front door.

The back door key, which I leave on the kitchen table during showings, works on the front door, too; luckily, the realtor thought to try that, and they escaped…fewer than 12 minutes after they arrived (I know this because I quickly realized my mistake and raced back home).

I’m estimating at least two of those minutes were spent trying to figure out how get out of the house. So…a whirlwind viewing and then locked in. I’m guessing today’s viewer is a firm “no.”

Just two days ago, I was lamenting the fact that there were no house projects on which I could work, because it would be beyond foolish to dig into something guaranteed to make a mess. Oops.

Yesterday evening, after arriving home from a delicious dinner (thank you Christopher Schwarz) at which I ate far too much poutine, I wanted nothing other than to sprawl on the couch and groan about my overindulgence.

But there was a note from the realtor who showed the house last night that the light fixture in the third floor bath needed some attention. Perhaps she was showing the house to the Incredible Hulk, because the cord to turn the light on and off had been pulled completely out, and the bits that connected it inside the base were missing. I couldn’t fix it.

It was a cheap (and ugly) fixture that was there when I bought the house, though, so I in no way blame the visitors – I just wish it had happened to me a month ago.

With a showing scheduled for tonight, another tomorrow morning and an open house Sunday, I had no choice but to forego the couch for the evening. At 7:30 p.m., I raced to the big box store to find a replacement. The sconce I bought is far better looking than what was there – and it has a  switch on the bottom rather than a grotty piece of string to turn it on and off.

But of course, the base is smaller, so I had to pull out the paint and brush before I could worry about the electric. Then it turned out the new base also didn’t cover the missing plaster that had been hidden behind the previous fixture. Out came a snippet of backer rod and the fast-drying joint compound (yeah, yeah…I could have mixed up some proper plaster, but that would be more mess, and it was a small hole).

Finally, daylight fading fast, I grabbed the intern, Priyanka Mehta, who’s renting my third-floor bedroom for the summer, showed her how to use a circuit tester, then raced to the basement to start flipping the circuits, cell phone in hand.

With the current cut, I showed Priyanka how to attach a fixture strap to a plaster wall and then how to wire the new light. We got it installed just as the sun dropped fully below the horizon, and I cleaned up the resultant mess of plaster dust, old fixture parts and crusty old wire nuts.

Easy, right?

Almost. Turns out, the glass shade simply sits in the base; there are no set screws to hold it in place – and that’s a problem, because the fixture is installed on an angled wall. (I guess I should have ponied up for a fancier fixture – or at least thought to look beyond the aesthetics of the one I chose; too late!)

For now, there is a strip of electrical tape securing the shade to the base at the appropriate angle. And while you can’t see the tape, I’m pretty sure the mastic will quickly release if the light is on for any duration. And anyway, I can’t bear to leave it jerry rigged in such a shoddy manner.

So tonight, I have take it back off the wall in order to drill a small hole in the back of the sleeve to rig up a set screw. (Do I remember which circuit breaker controls that wiring? I do not.)

While I’m confident I can solve the light shade problem, I’m out of the blue paint I need to touch up the small area of new “plaster” work. I may have to just let that one go (Valium, please).

I’ve changed my tune; I do not want any more house projects for the nonce. But Priyanka was pleased to have learned how to wire a fixture, so that’s something. (Hmmm….perhaps I should introduce her to a dovetail saw and a small box project.)

p.s. Sorry about the crap photo – my proper camera was at work and the iPhone wasn’t really up to the job.