Small Spaces, Big Laughs

Since I mentioned recently that I was getting the itch to get back into the real estate game, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about life in the city.

A few things have occurred to me, and I am not sure you'd understand unless you've:

a) lived in a huge city,

b) lived in a high-rise,

c) lived without a car or

d) lived on your own for a really long time.

So, here's to us. The apartment dwellers. The high-rise residents. The world-weary urbanites. The soloists.

With that in mind:

You know you live alone in an urban, high-rise apartment when...

...you now understand the idiom "not enough room to swing a cat" quite literally.

…you only have two small lamps and the whole room is bright.

…your social events have a max load capacity requirement guest list.

....you had to choose one color palette for every 'room' in your house since you can pretty much stand in the 'foyer' and see every corner of the joint.

...your next-door neighbor is a quiet Portuguese woman who cares for her not-so-quiet Portuguese wheelchair-bound mother.

...you have invented stories, and names, for the neighbors you see in the building next door.

...your arms are sore from the full-contact sport that is grocery shopping and walking the two-blocks and up the elevator and down the hallway and into the apartment only to dump it on the floor because your kitchen is too small before it gets put away and who's hungry anymore fact of the matter.

…you have to switch out the clothes in closet seasonally because only one season fits at a time.

...you recognize that privacy must be planned, as in, "I'm going into the bathroom for awhile, okay?"

...you have scheduled a luggage or a shopping cart from the front desk, a la the bellstand at a hotel, just to get your shopping treasures inside.

...you know that your upstairs neighbors are new parents and like to make love at about 9 pm on Tuesdays.

...you have experienced the 'use the stairs only in an emergency' down 13 flights when you awoke to the fire alarm, only to find out that the billowing smoke was luckily coming from the south tower of the building, not the north (yours).

…you can carry on a full conversation with someone in the kitchen from your bedroom.

...you see someone downtown, on the sidewalk, and you think you know them from somewhere, all before you realize that they run the 'volunteer library' in your building, which says something about your lack of social life.

...you have to dust the kitchen countertops and the dining room table more than once a week because of the dust from Lake Shore Drive.

...you know when your downstairs neighbor is cooking Italian, and you smell it long into the night.

...you have ridden in an elevator upwards of 12 times in one day.

...you have three overnight guest options—a pull out sofa, an Aerobed and to spoon with you.

...you know precisely how much laundry you can manage to carry in an elevator up to the 26th floor laundry room without wincing in pain.

...your wingspan is wider than your bathroom.

...you have towels and sheets folded into a linen closet that doubles as storage for your hotel-stolen-toiletries, your feather duster, your ace bandages, your laundry detergent and your extra lightbulbs.

...you live, shower, sleep, eat and drink within 4 yards of at least 12 people and you could neither recall their names or pick them out of a lineup.

...you know the Cubs are playing a night game because of the neon glow it makes in your bedroom and the sullen admission that, no, the applause is not for you.

...you have actually felt jealousy, no, rage, at the sheer envy that bubbles up inside when you overhear someone talking about their "backyard," "garden," "driveway," "deck," "patio," "garage," or, God forbid, their "cul-de-sac."

...you've decided that it no longer matters if the neighbor building sees you in your skivvies while you iron in the living room.

...you've felt self-conscious while putting your it-was-more-than-one-week-I-swear stash of wine bottles into the recycling bin in the trash chute room.

...you know your bus is coming because you can hear it before it arrives, and you may actually make it downstairs and out the front door before it pulls up to your stop, sortof like in grade school when you stood at the base of your driveway.

...your morning showers are affected by the untimely flush of your upstairs neighbor.

...you just vacuumed your entire apartment while plugged into one outlet.

That last one actually just happened to me and I laughed out loud.

Because it helps to have a sense of humor while trapped in a 900-square foot, 4-room looney bin.

Trust me.

Any other small-space urban dwellers that want to chime in?

By all means.

In fact, shout it aloud—I can probably hear you through the walls.

Home is Where the Spackle Is

In this economic climate, I know that there is a lot of intelligent discussion about how best to spend your money. There are experts that debate the rent vs. own situation all the time.

I am not one of those experts.

Sometimes I wish, and wonder, if I'd be better off if I were still flushing $1,000+ in monthly rent.

I bought a condo, however, in 2005. In the peak of the market. But, I had vision and saw past the dingy and the old and the dirty and the unkempt to see the potential in a condo. I looked for space, location and features that couldn't be changed. I knew what I would and wouldn't compromise on, and bent my 'rules' where necessary.

In short, I spent a grueling 3 months looking for the right place with my amazing realtor, Tom, who, in a lot of ways, served as the 'male point of view,' which was sorely needed. He encouraged me to seek a place that had the space that I wanted, and that had the bare bones with which I could work.

My parents, being handy and dandy altogether, were kind enough to give up almost two weeks of their time to come to Chicago (driving the 13 hours with a carload of stuff, tools, furniture and the rest) to assist me in the complete and utter renovation of my new condo.

I should start at the beginning, to give you a real sense of with what I was really dealing. My condo was owned by a 104 year-old woman who'd just recently died in hospice. She'd been in a wheelchair, and clearly hadn't updated her decor in, oh, say, 20 years. Which is to be expected for a woman who was born in 1901. Yes, turn of the century, people.

The building was converted to condos in the 80s, but had been built as apartments in the 60s. I'd bet anything that the previous and aforementioned tenant had lived here that whole time, and hadn't changed much in the way of decor or finishes since then.

She had, in no particular order of favor, a pink stove, brown metal cabinets with wood-grain stickers, a brown fridge, a beige wall-mounted rotary phone, velvety linoleum tiles in the dining room, two mismatched folding doors to the kitchen, a rickety wooden "pantry," a full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door facing the living room, and generally just tired paint. The walls looked like she'd run that wheelchair right up on them, and the carpet was no better off.

All in all, I had to have SERIOUS vision.

The light was great. There were full-length windows facing north, where the "look left" was Wrigley Field and the sunsets, and the "look right" was Lake Michigan and Waveland Park. The space was pretty good—fairly large for a 1-bedroom. The bones were there, but man, the filling was bad.

BAAAAD.

So, my parents and I ripped it out. Dismantled the kitchen. Gutted the bathroom. Replaced the flooring in the kitchen and dining room. Updated the fixtures, the lighting, the appliances. Painted every surface that wasn't carpeted, including the radiators and covers. The only thing we salvaged (literally, the only thing) was the crystal chandelier in the dining room. My sister (who, to her own detriment, arrived later to help) cleaned it and painted the brass parts black. It is gorgeous now.

Overall, we sweat and swore and sweat and swore some more for more days than we'd like to recall.

The work was worth it. I show you the bad so you can appreciate the good. Which, I'm not showing just yet. I know, what a tease. In the true spirit of reality shows, I'm not revealing the results just yet. I have more photos to come because I'm receiving some final furniture pieces and I'll post final photos then. Come on....the dessert is just not ready yet!

Please "enjoy" the before pictures:

Love that poo-brown fridge!
Rotary phone dialing, anyone?

Yes, the tiles are fuzzy.

Ooh. Laminate! Brown metal wood sticker cabinets!

Pink stovetop and oven, anyone?

The dining room, with the fixture in its brass beginnings.

Grey tile and wraparound counters, yes!

The furniture was probably valuable...

How would you sleep in that rocking chair?

See? VISION.

And, I bring all of this up so you can understand where I am coming from this week.

Awhile back, I noticed that in my bathroom, the paint on the ceiling was starting to crack a bit. I chalked it up to the fact that the moisture was trapped—there isn't a working vent, and there isn't a window. Aaaand, I put it off.

And then it got worse, as things that you ignore tend to do.

Last week, I noticed a new crack in the kitchen paint. The sage green painted wall was actually peeling off, a bit like nail polish. Then I looked around more carefully, and spotted a few more places on the wall, and now the kitchen ceiling, where the paint was behaving just as badly.

I was not altogether pleased.

So, on my birthday last week, I rented a Zipcar and ran some errands. Two phone calls to my Dad from the aisles of Home Depot later, I came home with the spackle, rollers and sandpaper to repair the said ceilings and walls.

Luckily, I saved the extra paint from 2005. I was praying that the color actually matched after four years of living.

I put off the project as long as possible.

And then, this weekend, I started. Sanding the edges of the cracking/peeling paint. Spackled it right up. Sanded it down. And then...got derailed.

The spackle was forcing the cracking/peeling paint up again. like a disobedient child. I, like a sad child, was almost in tears. The problem had just taken a turn for the worse. Part of me wanted to just stick the peeling parts down with super glue. Part of me wanted to just ignore them and spackle on like a brave project engineer. And part of me wanted to just give up and go get a beer.

The beer won.

After the beer and the project settled, I sanded the spackled areas (which were getting larger and more aggressive as I went along) and then stood up on the granite countertops, with the upright vacuum cleaner next to me, using all sorts of vacuum attachments, and sucked up all the sanding dust that had settled all over the top of my kitchen cabinets, my refrigerator, the granite island, and everywhere else that dust did and possibly could travel. I'm fairly certain that the neighbors across the way had a field day watching me (curiously no doubt) dancing on the countertop. Well, dancing might be a stretch when you consider that my head was titled at a right angle to fit under the ceiling, and the outfit wasn't exactly club attire.

I digress, but I hope you're at least laughing at that vision. I said I had vision, right?!

Then, where the spots were ready, I painted them. Luckily, they succumbed and the process was fairly painless—and, the spots were covered. Can I get a wahoo!?

Tonight, in a sad, dejected effort to finish what I'd started, I took a trip to the hardware store tonight to get more spackle. I guess a little foresight would have served me well when the optimist in me bought the smallest freaking jar of spackle to begin with. I am now armed with more.

However, ABC foiled my efforts by unveiling the new season of "The Bachelor" and I have now had almost two glasses of wine. Not even this homeowner fearless spackle warrior is willing to tackle the cracking devil with that much cabernet in me.

So, I delay the project's impending completion while I travel north to my second home (New Jersey, of course) tomorrow for the rest of the week. I'll post more photos when the project is complete, just to give you all the same sense of completion and closure that I'll no doubt feel.

Until that rascally paint starts peeling again.

Maybe I can sell this place and move before that can happen. After all, isn't 2010 the promised 'market bounceback?'

Yeah. I know. I bought a bigger jar of spackle this time.

Where's the landlord when you need 'em?

Oh yeah. She's had 2 glasses of red wine and is getting into her PJs now.

Breakdown

It always seems to be the case that everything is working just fine. And then it isn't.

(Never fear, Mom, this post is not about my mental state. Refer to the earlier posts this week, I'm doing great.)

Nope. Instead it is about the sheer fact that everything seems to breakdown just when you need it most.

How is it possible that I have two window air conditioning units, and the one that is old as the hills, and looks to be on its very last breath, seems to work just fine...and the newer one that is shiny and white, that sits in my living/dining room, doesn't want to work?

I haven't turned it on since at least September, and I did so on Saturday to cool the place off for a bit since it was 85 degrees out, and what would you know? Nothing. Nada.

Not even a hint of a breeze, cold or lukewarm. I had maintenance in my condo building come check out both of them yesterday, and to my dismay, the newer of the two is kaput. Finished. I have to get it replaced.

And, it is slated to be near or above 90 degrees all week.

Delightful. Did I mention that I'm 13 floors up, and the window unit fits into the small space in the radiator, which seems to require someone with the appropriate skill level (and brute strength, I'd imagine) to remove the existing one and replace it with the new model that I've yet to purchase?

Which leaves me to ask the obvious: Can I hire a husband for the day?

To make matters worse, in May, I just made my very last car payment on my little beloved Jeep Liberty. Proudly, I can attest that I have not had to dump any money into her for the life of my ownership - which is just over 4 years, mind you. The 2003 model has served me well, and hasn't cost me much beyond the occasional oil change and a monthly (or so) tank of gas.

Until now.

Right as I consider the option to sell her (egad!) because of how rarely I drive, and the unnecessary nature of those three or four trips per month (can anyone say needless Target trips? Outlandishly silly IKEA visits?), the computer in the car seems to be on the fritz. It was approximately 85 degrees on Saturday when I ran out to aforementioned Target and the in-dash thermostat read 74 degrees. Now, I am a true southern girl who loves her mid-seventies days as well as anyone - but I''m no fool.

74 degrees feels a whole lot different than 85 and humid. It wasn't even close to the more affable mid-seventies range on Saturday. But my Liberty insisted it was. The compass seemed to be on track, facing West as I caroused down Addison to heaven, I mean, Target, and East as I made my way through the Wrigley Field throngs past the stadium towards home, but the temperature? Stuck at 74.

I'm devastated.

Either I have to plunk money into a car that I really ought to sell (only to sign up for Zipcar for Target runs), which just is no fun at all, or I have to sell my "excellent condition" Jeep for something less. I'm still hoping for a computerized miracle - that she was just in a mid-seventies kind of mood on Saturday and that the next time I climb inside her and nestle on the lovely leather seats, that she'll have readjusted to the normal temperature. And temperament.

But given my recent luck with electronics/machinery (you remember the Tivo fiasco, don't you?), I doubt it.

It breaks my little car and condo owner heart to admit that things just have a way of breaking down when you need them the most.

In the immortal words of Alanis, 'Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?'

The Beauty of Cleaning the Hall Closet

With a little more time on my hands, I'm getting a lot done. Besides sending out resumes and responding to recruiters that seem to think I'd be a "perfect fit to sell insurance in the Western Suburbs!" that is.

I decided I'd first make a long to-do list of all of the projects that I have been putting off for some time now. Then, I drew little boxes next to each task, with the expressed purpose of celebrating each achievement as I finished said task, with a large black X next to the line completed.

It has been rewarding to see the progress. I feel productive! Accomplished! Sadly, OCD and happy about it!

Today's tasks included reorganizing my hall closet, which meant a sweaty trip to the upstairs storage unit dragging a wobbly luggage cart with two huge Rubbermaid bins of summer clothes up to the cage that is dedicated to my excess junk.

It also meant re-filing all my files into a fancy new plastic two-drawer storage bin.

Additionally, it meant putting away all of the knick-knacks from my office that were in banker's boxes.

And, finally, it meant going through the old costume bin I have been saving, adding to and laughing at over the years. In one spot, nestled in the back of the hall closet, sat the aforementioned haven for old outfits used for costume parties, Halloween affairs and other events that required me to be someone else.

Apparently, my personal history of costuming has been quite eclectic. I found the following items, in no particular order:

• a handmade fringed 1920s flapper outfit complete with garter belt, feathered headband, pink satin elbow length satin gloves, a plastic tommy gun and an enormous pink/purple 4' feather boa


• a cowboy denim shirt and a matching cowboy hat


• a leprechaun hat, green belt, green plaid butterfly-collared shirt, a shamrock sash and coordinating shamrock jewelry of the blinking and non-blinking design


• a red plaid Hugh Hefner robe, a set of pink satin pajamas, white/pink fuzzy slippers, a plastic diamond, fake boobs and a purse dog


• a dress made of a Twister board, a spinner hat, red fishnet hose and white go-go boot covers


• a hard hat from the inaugural season of Atlanta's Philips Arena


• an authentic Atlanta Hawks with the number 00 and my last name stitched on the back


• a smashed margarita-sticky straw hat


• 19 Mardi Gras beaded necklaces, 7 plastic blinking bracelets, 1 random red feather boa and 1 pair of plastic Devil horns


• a Boy Scout camp shirt, a reflective vest, white gloves, a stop sign and a City of Chicago police hat


• and, a red shoulder length wig, a long curly blonde wig and a ratty chin-length black bob wig.

For the record, I did try on most items today, and had a good laugh at myself as I did. Wigs and all. The itchy head and sticking-up-hair was worth every minute.

The XXXtra large plastic boobs (circa Anna Nicole Smith, pre-death) were a tad busted, forgive the pun, and I put them secretly in the hallway recycling bin. They're plastic! I'm pretty sure I will have given a neighboring old lady a heart attack when she spots body parts in with the newspapers and aluminum cans.

The various costume items I have chucked out in the last few years also include a full satin prisoner outfit with metal handcuffs and a dorky little hat; a head-to-toe camouflage outfit including orange wristbands and a fake rifle; a 60s mod dress with coordinating 6" headband and white gloves; and a hooker-like outfit that I just don't want to explain.

I'm either a Halloween buff, a reformed sorority girl or a grandma in the making. All of the above, quite possibly? I will have one mean dress-up-clothes trunk by the time I'm 80.

*Photos and full details of this year's Halloween party to come next week. No hints on what I'm going to be...you'll just have to wait patiently. Pass the candy corn, please.

Electronics Grudge Match

Last week, I was given a digital converter box for each TV in my condo by the friendly local RCN representative who had stationed herself in the community room of my building's lobby. The instructions were simple. The activation was immediate. The results were easy.

Even when I threw in the curveball that I currently have a Tivo box in my living room. She assured me that it wouldn't be more than a call to Tivo to get them to "read the new signal." All was supposed to go well.

Instead, it was pretty much like this:



For four hours last night, plied with a homemade salad and two bottles of shiraz, my friend Mike was kind enough to help. He immediately rolled up his sleeves and buried his head inside my armoire. Cables were flying, dust was everywhere. He reattached everything, streamlined a few unnecessary plug-ins, relocated my wireless internet router and cable modem for maximum efficiency, and hid it all nicely behind plants and photo frames.

He even made the dreaded phone call to RCN to ask the techie questions that I don't understand. And to initiate a new "ping" of my cable boxes (which trust me, sounds far sexier than it was in real life). The best part of the evening was this, and forgive me, but it was just funny. Don't judge.

The RCN guy was asking Mike to test a few channels on the living room TV to ensure that the signal was coming through properly to give me extended cable. He asked Mike to confirm that WBBM was on Channel 2. Yes. He asked Mike to confirm what was appearing on Channel 101, which was supposed to be BET.

Mike paused, turned toward the TV from his spot near the window (the only place to get clear cell phone reception in my condo, don't get me started) and replied, "On 101, it should be BET? Well, it's totally black."

Brett, occupying himself quietly on the lounge chair, muttered under his breath, "No pun intended."

Sadly, it was the highlight. We laughed so hard that I moved too quickly and kicked the trunk at the foot of my bed while racing back into the living room to laugh with them. I think I broke my pinkie toe. No, seriously. I'm limping.

Back to Mike and his superpowers. In short, he was very cheap tech support. Who actually knew what he was doing. And was willing to stay for dinner.

I didn't lift a finger. I found the right cable in my "box o' cables" when called upon to do so. I dug out my TV's instruction manual when that was necessary. I handed him the dustrag and the spray cleaner and I am pretty sure he (or Brett) even did that part for me.

All in all, it was a stressful night of electronics vs. man.

Unfortunately, my electronics seem to have a communications problem. They don't get along.

The free digital cable converter box that RCN provided me clearly is a closed-minded snob. He doesn't want to cooperate with the foreign outsider that is my Tivo component box. Who, incidentally, is a stubborn pile of silver plastic. Maybe they need couples counseling? Maybe I should throw them into the ring to see who would win?

Bottom line?

The RCN box will only send out one signal. The Tivo needs two in order to record two things at once. To make matters worse? The Tivo won't read a channel changed on the cable box without a fancy $18.98/month box from RCN. Which is added to the monthly cable payment that is already a bit on the high side.

So, my solution was clear. Ditch Tivo, and convert to a RCN DVR for my Tivo-like needs.

Sounds simple enough, no? I call Tivo to cancel the arrangement with them. Not so fast, little lady. Tivo has me locked into a 3-year contract, in which I've only completed two years. It would cost me $155 and change to get out of it. Basically, the $12.95 a month for a year for a service I can't use because my electronics are disagreeable.

I can only imagine how the little old ladies in my building are handling this "simple transition" to digital cable.

I'm in a building where I have no choice over the cable provider. I can't change the way the building is wired. I can't do much except call RCN and beg them to send me a fancy new converter box on the off chance that it will play nicely in the sandbox with my Tivo, which may be a lost cause.

In summary, I can't do anything but throw components and their matching remotes out the 13th story window. Which would have been my idea of "solving the problem" had Mike not stopped me.

Clearly that doesn't fix anything.

But it would have felt really good to see a host of electronics smashed to smithereens down on the sidewalk, wouldn't it?

I should have had more wine.

Bad Luck o' the Irish

Last night, I walked in my front door at about 9 pm and heard dripping. Heavy dripping.

I wander around, ears perked, silently creeping, trying to find the source of the sound. I walk near the radiator (which is handsomely covered by a casing and hardwood at the floor) and hear what sounds like Niagra Falls.

Hm.

I grab a flashlight, stick it into the radiator cover and check out the situation. No water. That I can see at least.

Then I begin to traipse through the rest of the unit, holding out the flashlight, looking high and low.

Oh, high.

There I see this:


A huge water bubble behind the paint in my living room. And, water spots on the ceiling. And, a continuous flow of water coming down the wall.

OH, goodie. On both sides - in the living room AND the kitchen. Here's the kitchen wall beside the fridge with the peeling green paint and water pooling below my fridge:


The hardwood floor was warping already, and discoloring, and just laying there in a flood. The carpet is soaked, even though it only looks like one spot was wet. That just happens to be where I stepped on it to test it. It squirted up to my knees. It is soaked:


I called the emergency maintenance in my building, and within 10 minutes they were up there, agreeing with me and my assessment of the damage (aka "this sucks!"), and went upstairs to the condo above me that was under construction.

They came back down to tell me that the unit was being renovated, they'd just put down hardwoods, and the painters had left the hot water valve on, so it was flooded. UGH.

My damage is bad, but they've already contacted me and are claiming it on their insurance. Incidentally, they are from Ireland, are contractors, and are renovating the unit for their friends who still live in Ireland.

How's that for luck o' the Irish?? The poor thing answered the phone in her Celtic brogue and I empathized with her, and she offered to do whatever it took to make me happy this weekend even before the insurance company assessor could come check out the damage.

Uhm, how 'bout a bottle of vino, a pan of brownies and a massage?

No?

Ok. Then I'll settle for fixing the floors/ceiling/walls and maybe, just maybe, new carpet?

Ironically, one of the bloggers I read each day posted a story today about an almost exact incident happening to her last night. I commented, sending her good karma.

I sure hope that karma is riding a boomerang.

Blood, Sweat and Beers

When you plan to have people over, whether it is 4 people or 40, it makes you look around your home and assess it through the eyes of the visitor.

I have lived in my condo for almost 3 years and I love to entertain. Now, don't go getting any grand ideas about fancy dinner parties for 12 where the table looks like Martha Stewart laid it out and is now hiding in the closet. I don't have a table that big, or a closet that roomy for that matter.

More often, it is just a handful of friends, stopping in to have a drink, toast the season, play a board game or watch sports on TV, or simply to swap stories and laugh about life in general. All in all, low-key entertaining is my bag. I love the notion of having people into my space, and expect that they will want the "tour" and kindly "judge" my choices. All of which is expected, and just fine with me.

Tomorrow, Brett will be bringing his parents by after the Cubs game, due to my ridiculously convenient location near Wrigley Field (I know, it is as awesome as you think) and I genuinely want the place to look "just so." And, I'm having an impromptu gathering at my place (either inside if it rains, or on the roof-deck if it is nice) tomorrow night, so it is a double whammy. Most of my friends have seen my place, but not all of them.

And, it is truly MY place. I found a realtor on my own, used my friend the mortgage broker, hired a lawyer on my own, bought it on my own and love it all so much more for that accomplishment. BUT, I must say, that the love I have for this place is magnified, exemplified and multiplied by the fact that the place was in total and terrible disarray when I first wrote the offer.

It was owned by a woman who was 104 when she died, and she was wheelchair bound and hadn't updated the unit in about, oh, 40 years. The rotary telephone on the kitchen wall was dated 1965 on the back. She had brown vinyl flooring, a pink stovetop, a brown fridge, metal cabinets with wood veneer stickers, furry vinyl dining room flooring and western-movie-style-wooden-swinging-doors in/out of the kitchen. The light fixtures were brass and from 1973, and the furniture was old enough to be ugly, but not old enough to be valluable. It was really hard to see past all of it.

But, I, for one, can see the potential in a place. It was huge for a one-bedroom, and had knee-to-ceiling windows on the entire north side that featured spectacular views of the Western sky and the Eastern view over the lake.

I also happen to have super handy parents who were kind and generous enough to help guide, steer and help me through the renovation. To put it mildly, we painted every surface that wasn't carpet, ripped out every cabinet there was, detached every light fixture from its place (minus one, story to come) and refinished the floors in 3 out of 4 rooms. All 1,000 square feet are just the way I had hoped they'd be, at least in design. After much blood, sweat and beers, mind you.

Just feeling that way makes you more protective of your space, and how people will view it. And, quite frankly, the love affair with the place is starting to move past the honeymoon phase and into the reality of the relationship, where you notice the flaws, cracks and otherwise dings in the overall loveliness of the facade you once treasured.

However, I mustn't point those out to visitors, right?

They shouldn't know that the bathtub leaks and the incessant drip is wearing off the epoxy tub and tile paint job that my mother and I so painstakingly mixed (a true science experiment, that one) and painted until we were almost choking on fumes, right?

They couldn't possibly notice how the tiny bathroom isn't vented properly, and therefore, every shower that is taken in its presence causes the walls to sweat, right?

They won't ever be keen to the fact that the hot water in the kitchen runs at a pressure about 1/10th of what it should, making washing dishes very challenging, right?

They won't see that the carpet is flattened out in certain places from the previous owner's wheelchair, and that I haven't yet felt like up-ending my life to replace it, right?

Yeah. They will never be the wiser. However, I am, and it makes me judge and view my place with a harsher lens than others do.

Most days, though, the crystal chandelier in the dining room—the one fixture we left in tact—catches the sun coming in from the west as it sets over Wrigley Field and I'm just happy as a clam. The blue of the water of Lake Michigan over the green of the grass of Waveland Park reflect so perfectly against the khaki hues in which I've chosen to wash my walls, leaving the viewer in awe of nature's color palette.

And, given the fact that the renovation was completed in a mere 5 days (due to delayed closings and all other sorts of stressfu, horrible, terrible, frustrating situations that were far beyond my control) with all of my belongings in the center under a tarp and new and old cabinets serving as dining tables as we (once again) ate pizza out of boxes while paint dried in our hair and the beer was not even cold because the fridge was in the living room and the sink had no faucet and the counter had no granite yet and the bathroom only worked when the epoxy paint had dried...I'd say we did ok.

Yeah. No one needs to know all of that. But, I can show you a few before and afters, in an homage to my fearless renovating parents, and my sister's loving touches, and my own strength of character (and volume of voice in a stressful tirade, as it turned out).

The bathroom in all of its before and after glory.


Pretty big improvement in the kitchen, I'd say.


Another view of the kitchen, where the old phone had once hung.


In the dining room, the crystal chandelier in question.

As Brett's kind parents and a handful of close Chicago friends come over tomorrow, I will serve as a gracious host, and will absolutely NOT point out the flaws of the place. As with any good relationship, I respect my place too much to air our grievances in public.

In Home Depot, though? That's another story.

It's Friday and I'm in Love (with Target)

I have taken the day off today from work, solely to accomplish those personal to-do list items that you rarely get to when the weekend hits. And, the traffic to maneuver this city is so much better on a Friday than mid-day chaos on a Saturday.

I spent 2 hours (and way too much money) at Target this morning. I think I touched at least one item on every rack, and scanned each aisle, just in case. People stared at me because I was just so, well, happy. Just to be there. I'm fairly sure that one store shouldn't bring someone so much pleasure. Even the pouring rain and heavy bags couldn't damper my mood.

So, while you twitter away the last few working hours of the week, I'm off to cross things off my to-do list, begin the four loads of laundry staring at me, affix the wheels to my spanking new granny cart and switch out the seasonal wardrobes.

Before you go picturing me standing in a Gap-sized organized closet with remote controlled moving racks, please know that this process is more like this: grab the Rubbermaid totes from the creepy storage unit upstairs, unload the cute spring and summer clothes I forgot I owned, drag them back up filled with sweaters and boots, and pray the whole way down that the weather won't turn nasty again.

Because I just can't handle snow in May. Or, another trip to the storage unit before October.

Oooh! I just spotted my flip flops! A gift from God, especially after a winter where we got 75 days of snow.

Love in an Elevator

Elevator etiquette, or lack thereof, is a big part of an urban dweller's life. I live in a 26-story high-rise building, on the 13th floor. I work in a 36-story high rise building, on the 27th floor. My boyfriend lives in a 20-story high-rise building, on the 15th floor.

Clearly I spend a LOT of time in elevators each day. I consider this my informal training at assessing the elevator behaviors I observe. I'm practically an expert. Here are my observations, to date:

• Old people not only like to talk to you in the elevators, they EXPECT it. Don't even think about ignoring them, or mumbling an answer, or you're bound to get a lecture on manners or e·nun·ci·a·tion.


• The younger generation is so utterly uncomfortable on elevators that they will do ANYTHING to avoid looking at each other. They will pick at their fingernails, pretend to do stuff on their phone (despite the widely held knowledge that phones don't work on an elevator), adjust their iPod or play with their hair. Anything to avoid having to look at you, much less exchange words.


• Business people judge one another while confined in this airless space. They assess suits, overcoats, hats, handbags, body odors, and (since most are staring at their feet), shoes.


• Don't you often wish you could hear a stranger's thoughts while standing within arm's length of them for 15 floors. I'm fairly certain sometimes it would include things like, "She smells like vodka, and it is 2 pm on a Sunday." or "I can't believe she's leaving the house to do laundry wearing her slippers. Has she no respect for herself?" or "Man, she's really tall. Is she wearing really high heels? Nope. Just a giant." or the like.


• The elderly women in my elevator at home like to talk to me, and I have myself convinced it is because I remind them of their granddaughter, daughter-in-law, childhood friend, or just maybe, themself at 30 years old. Conversation with these ladies is inevitable, and usually begins with something sweet like, "I do declare! I believe I've lived in this building longer than you've been alive!" She's probably right. Incidentally, there are far more old ladies in my buidling than old men. I suspect this was where the old bitties moved after the death of their loving husbands. Sad, but true.


• Don't shower in your cologne or perfume. It ruins the morning for the rest of us. And, if I wanted to smell like Chanel No. 5, I'd wear it. Or rub up against a rich granny on the bus.


• There is much debate about the protocol for the door holding move. It is my belief that if someone is later to arrive to the bank of elevators, it is my friendly obligation/favor to hold the door for them. If I can hear them hurrying, scrambling and shuffling to get to the open elevator, it would just be obnoxious to let it slide closed in their face.


• Others I've discussed this with feel quite the opposite—that if someone isn't on, they're not on. Let it close. They can wait, rather than keeping the passengers waiting. That is just a tad bit cold and selfish for me, and when I'm the one hurrying for the door, I know that I appreciate the moment of fleeting kindness by a random stranger. Especially since as soon as we board, we'll ignore each other once again.

All in all, riding in an elevator is a strange cultural situation, a paradox of close proximity and distanced behavior, that results in some strange observations of humanity.

When in doubt, say hello, look each other in the eye, and talk about the weather. It gets 'em every time. And maybe next time you're holding two loaded bags of groceries, they'll kick out their leg or risk a limb to hold the door for you.

They HAVE been living/working in that building longer than you've been alive, you know.

Hopefully it's Better than Cake

Dear Daddio,

Since today is your birthday, and I can't be there to celebrate with you, instead I'm treating you to a slow walk through memory lane. It'd be a jog, but with our bad knees, we'd both be hurting. A walk will do.

• My earliest memory of music is you playing the Eagles album in our old house—the one with the brown paperboard cover that had the name of the band embossed on it. I recall sitting there rubbing the letters while you sang the words out loud. I don't recall any dance moves, and given your "hands above the shoulders" style at weddings of late, that may be for the best.


• Your musical tastes today often are the subject of fodder for us now—I am pretty sure you are the only person who loves Jon Secada, Rick Astley, Pilot of the Airwaves, and that obnoxious Six Flags commercial song. You redeem yourself slightly with your steadfast appreciation of good acapella tunes, and any rendition of Amazing Grace that iTunes has to offer.


• Ever since I can remember, you have opened Christmas presents with the glee usually reserved for small children, and the biggest, floppiest bow usually ends up stuck to your head. I wouldn't trade that for anything.


• Summers meant airshows, and I can thank you for my love of the fighter planes zooming overhead every August at the Chicago Air & Water Show. The sound alone makes me smile, and recall hot Atlanta summers standing in the middle of a field staring straight up. My skinny legs always itched from the tall grasses, we inevitably got cricks in our neck from the frozen posture, and my shoulders grew increasingly more freckled over the years, but the time spent with you was undoubtedly worth it.


• Playing sports was our way to make up for you not having a son, and we loved being out there on the court/field/pool to represent your love of the game. Hearing you call out "Come on, Tiger!" was enough to make me forget the lousy shot I'd just taken, and hustle my way back into the action. If only I'd been as good at any of those sports as another famed "Tiger," I may have been able to give you a bigger gift this year.


• Road trips, typically to St. Louis, were long and arduous, but you always knew how to earn some giggles. With your extra long arms (yet another trait I inherited), you'd reach back and grab our ankles from the driver's seat, causing us to erupt and shriek, making the stretch across the Chattanooga mountains more interesting.


• You remain the only grown adult I've known to consistently order a glass of milk with your dinner at a restaurant. The look on the waiter's face is often worth more than the tip.


• The smell of Home Depot will forever remind me of those Saturdays when Mom gave you a "honey do" list and you decided to drag us along, letting us ride the big orange flat carts, while you shopped. Who knew sawdust and plywood could be so much fun?


• As with your car building obsession now, I was always the only girl I knew who could wander down to "Dad's shop" and find model airplanes stretched across the basement, made of balsa wood and super glue, featuring two Barbie pilots—one blonde and one brunette—proving once again that you liked having your girls along while you explored your hobbies. I finally have recovered from the time that you admitted you had to chop off Barbie's legs to get her to fit in the cockpit.


• In addition to car building, your devotion to X-Files, Star Trek, Grease and Speedvision ensures that you are a unique individual. With control of the remote.


• Getting emails from you now guarantees a laugh as you explore the hilarious world of text lingo. OMG, I'm not sure who in your office taught you, but I'm guessing their daughter is 14. LOL.

Since I'm not there, I can't run in the room and give you a giant bear hug, only to curl up later and sit as your "lap dog" despite the fact that I'm way too old for it and the club chair creaks under our combined weight. I can't help you grill the burgers with the screen door standing open, doing anything I can to evoke your Woody Woodpecker laugh. I can't fight over the last piece of chocolate cake, only to succumb because it's your birthday, and you're bigger than I am. I can't share in your latest achievements on the hot rod, and tease you for your Einstein-wacky eyebrows. I do, however, know that you're proud of your girls, and your encouragement means so much to me, even across the miles.

Happy Birthday, Daddio!

Much love, ("You heart me?!?")

Colleener Machiner

Look Sharp

My mom and sister arrive today, and are actually on the ground in Chicago as we speak. They're riding the famed Orange Line from Midway, so hopefully no one flashes them as they cruise past the Pulaski stop (see yesterday's post if you have no idea what I'm referencing).

I have a full weekend of sight-seeing, wine-drinking and food-eating planned, including a trip out to Oak Park to see the Frank Llloyd Wright home and studio, as well as a walking tour of the homes in the area he designed.

And, then...

The forecasters announced that we're to get 4-9" of snow tomorrow.

It goes without saying that I'm over it.

But, I did scrub, clean, vaccuum, spritz, spray and dust my condo within an inch of MY life in preparation for their visit, so if we have to stay home and, ahem, complete house projects so be it.

The list on the fridge is a mere coincidence, Mom, I promise. And, the Home Depot credit card laying out? Yeah, I leave that there all the time. No, no, I'm not asking you to...oh, you'd like to help? Well grab your pre-printed monogrammed waist apron and protective eyewear and let's get busy.

**Update as of Monday, post-weekend: We DID get snow on Friday, and we DID finish all 6 house projects I had on my list, plus one or two that I hadn't even thought of. My Mom and sister sure are handy. Maybe I could rent them out by the hour on their next visit?

In Time for Valentine's Day!

As my "fan base" for this blog grows, so do the suggested topics. I couldn't avoid this one today, provided by my friend Josh.

The above photo is of a couch crafted by an art student in San Francisco, who is now trying to unload this lovely creative venture on an unsuspecting (pervy?) buyer.

It is a va-ja-jay couch.

It can be yours for the low-low price of $600, plus a flight to California, and a U-Haul rental back to Chicago or wherever you reside (in your couchless apartment).

The best part is the description: "the couch has some scuffmarks and stains around the bottom from being moved." Yeah, that's what they all say.

I don't think I can write much more. Just go to Craig's List and see for yourself. There's even an "action shot" of someone sitting in it. And they don't look very comfortable. It makes the utterly unstylish papasan chairs look relatively normal, roomy and chic.

And, yes, I just typed va-ja-jay. Get over it.

You probably own a papasan.

Not Funny at All

I am at home sick today and am not feeling smart, charming or even the slightest bit witty. Forgive the radio silence.

And, yes, I did just allow the comparisons between me and a giraffe.

And, yes, I see the similarities.