All it Needs is a Coat of Paint

Ahhh...Spring Break.  The dulcet tones of bored children and husband underfoot.  The soothing rhythm of feed-the-family-walk-the-dogs-do-the-laundry, punctuated only by the occasional reminder that they are all still here.  Isn't there someplace you people need to be?  Like, not here?  Trying to write a book, here, cats.  And my house is wee and my office is in the living room.

In a clever gambit, I suggested that Phillip and the children repaint the kids' bathroom.  It's upstairs, conveniently situated between their two bedrooms.  They pretty much don't use it, because it has no windows, has never been painted since the builders sprayed it white, and is generally the gloomiest slice of real estate you ever saw.  Add to that a suspiciously musty odor that I have always attributed to sub-par housekeeping, and altogether the place is sorely in need of some attention.

If the kids have a nicely redecorated new bathroom to hog, they won't always be in OURS.

If the rest of my family are crammed into a 6-foot room industriously occupied, I will be left in relative peace.

Two Birds: One Stone.  What could possibly go wrong?

Appearances to the contrary, this is not the usual location of the kids' commode.  It has been temporarily relocated.  Because of the painting.  Honest.

A Mommy-Initiated thorough cleaning of the loo did not remove its musty funk.  Suspiciously more intense around the throne (where one really enjoys sticking ones nose, let me assure you), it was the scent of plumbing, and despair. 

You know that thing where someone says "Smell this milk - I think it's gone bad," and you actually, do?  Well this was just like that, but much, much worse.  My experience informs me that nothing good ever comes from behind toilets.  Come to think of it, kneeling in front of one is never the prelude to a good experience, either.

Closer examination (during which, it should be noted, I was not peacefully writing a book) revealed that the seal around the toilet was compromised.  And by compromised, I mean missing.  If there had ever been anything between porcelain and crappy builder-grade vinyl flooring, it's a memory now.  Fearing the worst, we bravely moved the toilet.  And by we, I mean Phillip, whom, I noted, looks surprisingly sexy when schlepping major plumbing fixtures.  Who knew?  Then we pulled up the baseboards and the vinyl flooring.  Nasty bit of work, that.  Did I mention this was supposed to be about people other than me, and involving nothing more challenging than some swell purple paint?

Two words a homeowner loves to hear:  DAMP. SUBFLOOR.  For the blissfully uninitiated, that means that moisture found its way under the crappy vinyl flooring and into the sponge-like plywood meant to support the not-insubstantial weight of the commode.  Yay! Mildew! 

Phillip and I debated the relative merits of replacing the subfloor.  And its degree of difficulty/expense.  When I say debated, I mean it went something like this:

Me:        "We have to disconnect the sink, then unscrew the vanity from the wall.  Then we yank down the tile backsplash, which often destroys the drywall behind it.  That allows us to drag the vanity out of the room.  Then and only then can we begin gutting the subfloor.  For that we need wrecking bars, face masks and fortitude.  Then we get new 1" plywood, which we (try to) cut using my wimpy little table saw, and install it.  After that we can reinstall the vanity, reconnect the sink, and install a whole new floor and baseboards.  Then you and the kids can paint the walls."

Phillip:    "Is that sucking sound our bank account, or our will to live?

Me:        "Both, my love."

Phillip:    "What's plan B?"

Me:        "It's a little number I like to call "Lipstick On A Pig."  We kill the mildew with scary chemicals and dry the subfloor with fans.  Then we cover the carnage with inexpensive new flooring and properly seal the toilet.  The downside of the Lipstick-and-Pig plan is that it only borrows us some time.  Nothing more than a postponement of the inevitable and expensive Big-Men-With-Proper-Tools plan."

Phillip:    "And plan B means I don't have to move a vanity?"

Me:        "Not today, my friend.  But you do have to lift the toilet again."

Phillip:    "Step aside, little lady."

So while the subfloor dried, Team Huff went ahead with the painting.  Which really did improve the look of the place.  And the mildewcide seems to have done its job, if the receding stench is any indication. 

A visit to the big orange store netted us boxes of floor, encouragingly labeled "The Easiest Floor in the World!"  It actually says, right there on the box, Easiest!  In the World! 

What could possibly go wrong?

If I don't post pictures of a completed bathroom on Friday, you probably don't want to hear from me anyway.  Knit On, Gentle Readers.
 

Contagion

It started Friday night.  The patient came home from school determined to learn how to spin on the wheel.  Right Now.  It should be noted that her exposure to wool fumes was not outside normal levels.  Yet.

Lindsay sat herself down at my wheel and informed me that she was going to spin, and needed my help.  Though unprompted, her action didn't surprise me too much.  Immersion breeds interest, eventually.

I threw some Corriedale roving to her from the floof stash.  She'd been working with her drop spindle off and on for over a year, with mild interest, so the basic concepts were already in place.  Turns out the only thing wrong with spindles, if you are 12, and my kid, is that they aren't fast enough.  Go figure.  She spun.  On the wheel.  Just like that. 

I tried not to die of pride.

Coincidentally (or, perhaps not?) the next day Lindsay and I went to the Abernathy Grange Spring Fiber Sale.  Just the perfect example of a little home town, homeade cookies, support-your-local-sheep kinda event.  The Mother Ship called us both home.

We each had a tiny little allowance to spend any way we wanted.  We made the rounds through all the vendor booths twice, before making any decisions.  The buttons tempted me, loudly.  Is it ever thus.

Lindsay latched onto a Sporfarm Shetland batt with surgical precision.  No waffling required; not even on the color ("Shadows").  She's like that:  Wants it how she wants it, and onto what's next.

I struggled a bit over buttons, but ultimately picked a new challenge:

Never spun Angora bunny-floof before.  I think I might just like it. 

Then we went home, where Lindsay didn't even take off her coat before she was back at the wheel, spinning the rest of her corriedale.  She decided to practice a bit more with it before moving on to the new Shetland. 

Lindsay refused to get frustrated, or to take a break, until she had banged out two complete bobbins.  Her only annoyance was a reaction to the news that her singles would need to rest overnight before we could ply them.

And rest, they did, followed by enthusiastic plying, skeining, washing and finishing.  Lindsay was really into it, too.

And this is the photo that every spinner who also makes children dreams of taking:

I know I'm supposed to be careful not to drown my children in the things I love.  Each is his/her own person, entitled to their own passions and pursuits.  But when your offspring turns out to dig the thing you do, well that's just the living end.

And if she tires of it later, and moves on to yoga, or rodeo, or rock and roll, I will cheer loudly for those, too.  Because, while none of them will be as dear to me as spinning, I'll try them out along with her, if she wants. 

After all, enthusiasm is contagious.

Dress Parade

We make quite a spectacle, the Pooches, the Smallies and me, when we go to the bus stop each morning.  After the Smallies get on the bus, the remaining three of us take a walk.  This was the view from under my hat this morning:
 

The rain is still cold, here in my neck of the woods.  Cold and relentless.  March is positively suicidal at this latitude:  No sunlight for weeks and weeks.  Nothing but rain and more rain.  All those artificial sun lamps for the treatment of SAD start flicking on in March.

But we're making our own sunshine.  Scotties sporting tartan and argyle.  If that doesn't make you laugh, then you are made of stone.

Yes, I know I need to make them some properly hand knit sweaters.  Please feel free to post your design and color suggestions.

And since it is said that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day, the Celts at our house wish you much green beer, and very little Blarney, and a downhill road all the way to your door.  Sla'inte!