Rude Mechanicals Press Blog

Possum’s face pretty much sums up how I feel.

It’s not that I truly expected anyone to walk through the house today and immediately gush, “Yes – I must have it; let’s write a contract now!”

But I was hoping someone would.

“Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper.” — Francis Bacon

Ersatz and quick fan storage.

So far, no one who’s viewed my house has made an offer. I know, I know…there’ve been only four showings. Plus, it hasn’t even been on the market for a week.

Tomorrow, there are now three scheduled showings and an open house. Here’s hoping someone falls in love…because this morning, I signed the contingency offer accepted by the owner of the house into which I want to sink tens of thousands of dollars, and gallons of blood, toil, sweat and – no doubt – tears*. It’s a 1915 Arts & Crafts fixer-upper.

Perhaps, it’s all just a massive and expensive justification  to build furniture with through-tenons.; I’m so over dovetails.

* Yes, I know I changed Churchill’s word order; poetic license.

I’ve done everything within my power and budget that my realtor asked of me – except hide the coffee maker. I just can’t live without it handy and accessible.

I had two showings tonight, there’s one tomorrow and one on Sunday, along with a two-hour open house. While I am eager to sell my house so that I can buy another, I’m more eager not to have to keep this one looking (as much as possible) as if no one actually lives here. I know many people have to do this for months on end. I also know that I will not be able to survive this for months on end with my sanity intact.

Here’s the crazy-making top-10 list:

1. Having to wipe down the entire shower, including the floor, every morning. God forbid a drop of water would make someone realize that the person who lives here has the temerity to bathe.

2. Getting rid of the hand towels that usually hang on a magnet on the refrigerator door.

3. Keeping the paper towels, dish sponge, hand soap, dish soap etc. hidden away under the sink. It is particularly vexing after having washed the dishes to find that one has nothing on which to dry one’s hands, because of 2. and because one was too forgetful to pull the paper towels out from under the sink along with the dish sponge and soap.

4. Having to constantly wipe the soapy fingerprints off the handle to the cabinet under the sink because of 3…which again requires the towels inside.

5. Keeping the kitchen counters free of absolutely all things. (I balked at hiding away the coffee maker. That’s a bridge far too far.)

6. Having to hide the two boxes of litter (one for the first floor box and one for the second floor box). I get this; it’s bad enough that a viewer has to see litter boxes (and for obvious reasons, the litter boxes simply have to stay). So when I clean the litter boxes (which right now is twice or three times a day) and top them off, I have to haul the litter from hiding places in other rooms, which inevitably results in litter spills from hiding place to litter box.

7. Vacuuming constantly due to 6. (And cat hair)

8. Making the beds to high-end hotel standards every morning…then smoothing out kitty footprints in an OCD-like manner just before skedaddling (all the while knowing they’ll jump right back on as soon as I’m gone).

9. Making sure the flower vase on the mantel is full of fresh blooms, artfully arranged. (Which are then immediately dis-arranged by Miss Viola.)

10. Coming home after a showing to discover that, while in general the house looks pretty darn nice, one of the cats has hacked up a gargantuan hairball in the middle of the living room floor. Please let that have happened after the viewers left.

There’s a sign in my yard; I guess that makes it official. (Non-pro and possibly erroneous tip: Choose a realty company with marketing materials that complement or match your house colors.)

And, I got feedback from yesterday’s viewers; it seems despite the screen door issues, they managed to get in, and either did not notice the egregious mildew spot or were too polite to mention it.

I was told, “Property shows great, is somewhat overpriced, buyers really want a garage. Thought maybe they’d love the house enough to give that up, but no luck. Showed great though, and is a lovely home with nice flow and room sizes. Third floor bath is a huge plus.”

Well that’s all good (except for the price comment, and that’s to be expected), so I’m pleased. I, too, wish they loved it enough to overlook the lack of garage. I love it just a hair short of enough to continue to overlook that, hence the “For Sale” sign.

This Sunday, I’ve an early afternoon showing, then an open house from 1-3 p.m. I’m not too concerned about the individual showing(s), but I am fearful at the thought of having a bunch of people traipsing unaccompanied through the house.

I worry about stupid things (a list which now includes door handles inexplicably falling off) such as inadvertent (or malicious) coffee spills on the new carpet, muddy footprints on my freshly cleaned floors and my smoothing plane walking away (despite having been tucked away in my tool chest). I know these are ridiculous fears, but knowing that doesn’t help to alleviate them.

Of more concern is that of my 2.75* cats, only one can handle the influx of strangers (and he’s likely to see an open door as an invitation to saunter outside while no one is looking); the other 1.75 are likely to cower in fear for days to come (and possibly to pee everywhere).

But I’ve got to get this place sold…in large part because the thought of having to keep it neat and sparkling clean for any extended time period is anathema. More important, however, is that I’ve made an offer on another house, and we’re in the negotiation phase. While I’m loathe to jinx things by even mentioning it, it seems possible that, against expectations, it may actually work out…assuming I get an acceptable offer here. (No pictures or more on that front until/unless it’s a done deal, though. And just in case, I’m still staking out a comfy overpass).

*One of my cats, Possum, has only three legs; he’s the .75.

Today, I had the first house showing scheduled from 6-7 p.m. Perfect; just enough time to get home after work to clean the litter boxes, check for hairballs, etc.

But last night I was sleepless and anxiety ridden. Despite all my frenzied and exhausting work in the last couple weeks to get this place ready to sell, I know there are things I simply didn’t see because I’m so used to them.

I was pacing the hall at 1 a.m. trying to figure out what they might be, popped into the bathroom to refill the cats’ water bowl, and there it was: a glaring spot of mildew in the shower caulking. Out came the rubber gloves, bleach and scrub brush. That didn’t work. I soaked a rag in bleach and tucked it against the (by now in my head monumental) spot, and left it to sit for the rest of the night…which was really just four hours. At 5 a.m. I attacked it again. No joy. On to Plan B.

Plan B involved a stop on the way to work at the tile place from which I’d bought the materials for the rehab…materials that included an obscure and hard-to-find caulk (and grout) color, silver gray, that’s not available at the big box stores. But it didn’t open until 8 a.m. (I thought all contractor-type places were required by some secret contractor’s cabal to open at 7 a.m. But no.)

No problem, I thought. I’ll leave work a little early and get there before it closes at 5 p.m. That would give me about an hour to re-caulk the shower, clean the litter boxes and get out. Sure. I can do that.

At 3:45 p.m., the skies opened and a blustery deluge began. I raced to my car, got drenched on the way, got in and realized I had about 10′ of visibility. So I went back in the office (now doubly soaked) to wait it out. About 15 minutes later, the wind abated enough to drive.

So it was back to the car (at which point the umbrella was superfluous). I got in, pressed down the clutch and…a spider bit my toe. (Forget needing closed-toes shoes in the shop – I need them in my car.)

My toe is swelling up, a dead spider needs removal, I’m dripping wet and time is crushing in.

And then the ramp to the interstate is closed due to high water.

You have got to be kidding me.

An eight-mile detour on back roads got me almost home in fair time, but I live just on the other side of the tracks. Yup – a train. A long one. I recall hearing when I was a kid that trains aren’t allowed to block an intersection for more than 5 minutes. Either that was a lie, or this engineer didn’t care. It was 13 minutes. The crossing barriers lifted at 4:53 p.m.

Plan B was sunk.

Plan C was to get over it, and hope they didn’t notice. (And address the problem tomorrow.)

So I cleaned the litter boxes, tried to soak up the water on the third-floor carpet from having left the windows open, emptied the trash, looked to see if the rain had resulted in the usual basement pond (of course it had), left the house and took myself out to dinner.

I managed to find my bottle of Loctite and fix it…but why in the heck didn’t this happen to me yesterday?!

When I got back at 7:15 p.m., the handle on the screen door was unthreaded a bit, with the set screw backed out enough that it didn’t catch. In other words, the handle couldn’t be turned. I’m fairly certain the viewers got inside the house; some of the interior doors were in different positions than when I left. I think. But I don’t know.

If they did, I’m guessing the mildew spot, the wet carpet on the third floor, the basement water feature and the non-working screen door handle will not be big selling points. But hey – the cat boxes were clean.

My second-floor shop is freakishly neat. The bench is mostly bare and the majority of my hand tools are stashed in my chest. The “overflow” hand tools (yes, I have maybe one or two) are in various boxes or hanging neatly on the wall.

On the other side of the room, my computer desk has been cleared of all but the essentials. As I write this, all the peripherals (except my mouse) are stashed in the built-in cabinets that I designed and had built a few years after buying my house. And the books on the shelves above are…actually on the shelves above instead of strewn across my worksurface.

Two flights down in the basement, my chop saw and table saw have been dusted clean and pushed back against the wall. I’ve thrown away probably 60′ of moulding…all of it in 6″ or smaller lengths (some people hoard tools; I apparently hoard moulding offcuts). Two old sinks and 16 pairs of shutters have been donated to a local re-use outfit. The many half-empty, rusty cans of paint have been disposed of properly. Everything has a place – and is actually in it.

My hand-tool shop/study (I can’t imagine why my realtor didn’t show the workbench and tools on the other side of the room…)

It wasn’t too long after my study built-in project that I started as managing editor of Popular Woodworking. Had I waited another couple years, I’d have been able to make those cabinets and shelves myself. And indeed, as soon as I started learning in the shop, I started tackling project after project in my house.

I made and installed 8″ baseboards that matched the original – thank you David Thiel for getting me started down that path. I’m pretty sure that was the first time I’d used a router table. (And, having been bit by the hand tool bug thanks in large part to Christopher Schwarz, it remains one of the few times I’ve used the router table.)

When I bought my house, the living room, hallways and staircase were covered in matted, kelly-green carpet, and the dining room had cheap parquet flooring atop two layers of vinyl. And under everything was a layer of 1/8″ Masonite with nails every 4″ or so (what is wrong with people?!). Nasty. All of it. I lived with it for about six years, but I finally snapped late one night and just started ripping it out. So I then had to teach myself to tooth in flooring to replace the many (and large) plywood patches a previous owner had installed.

The next year, I decided to install hardwood floors in the second floor hallway. I didn’t really know how, but hey – the boards stayed where I nailed them. And they still look OK five years later.

I tried to strip the stairs. That did not go well. Three weeks of buckets full of baby-poop brown, goopy sludge later, I opted for paint (after another week of neutralizing all the various strippers I’d tried). That went a lot better.

I hired pros for the shower install. The rest is my work (with a few hours’ help from a now-ex whom I cajoled into helping me grout…might be why he’s an ex.)

The 1970s brown tiled and plastic-tubbed bathroom had to go. I took it down to the studs, taught myself to hang and mud drywall (sanding sucks), then had a glass shower installed. I laid and grouted tiny hexagonal tiles on the floor and subway tile on the shower walls, then framed out the walls with flat panels for an Arts & Crafts look, and built and installed a deep medicine cabinet.

Then, with the help and tutelage of Glen Huey, I built for that bathroom my first piece of casework and cut my first dovetails that I was willing to show to the world – the chimney cupboard that appeared on the cover of the February 2008 issue of Popular Woodworking Magazine. It holds my towels. (The cupboard, not the magazine.)

I’ve painted every room in the house (as well as the kitchen cabinets) – most of them at least twice. Oh – and every ceiling (my neck hurts from just thinking about it).

You can see my progress as a woodworker throughout the house, and not only in the now many pieces of furniture I’ve built for it. The moulding I installed early on does not look as good at the scarf joints and corners as that from a few years later. And I got faster at it. Last weekend, I installed shoe moulding in two hallways (with many angles and door openings) in just a couple hours (yes, I used a nail gun; sue me). Six years ago, it took me an entire day to do one room. A miter box with a sharp saw on the floor next to you beats running up and down flights of stairs to the chop saw for every cut – trust me on this.

But it’s that very need to run up and down two flights of stairs to access all my tools and machines that made me break down and install the last of the moulding. I’m itching for a “proper” shop – and that was the last bit of work that needed doing before I could put my house up for sale. So now it is. (You can see more of it here if you like. And should you be looking for a new home in Cincinnati, well, please get in touch with my realtor, Tim Hinde.)

It’s a bittersweet feeling; I’ve done so much work on it and learned a great deal while doing it. But it’s done. It’s time to move on and start again – this time in a house with a dry basement (preferably at grade) or a garage. For the last couple years, I’ve been hopping back and forth between my ersatz shop (and up and down my stairs), the shop at work and Christopher Schwarz’s shop. It’s time for a shop of my own. (I think Virginia Woolf would concur).

— Megan Fitzpatrick

p.s. When I do find a new home, it will be one that needs a lot of work, because a) that’s what I can afford b) I like having projects c) I find it satisfying to “rescue” an old building rather than buy a new one. I’ll be documenting the work (and the no doubt many frustrations) here. If you don’t see any new posts in the near future, it might mean I’m living under an overpass.