Daydreaming

Now that I'm back up off the floor, it's work work work on the book, and its associated book-y projects.  I wish I could show them to you, but like me, you'll have to wait till it's all done...

While I work, my focus constantly drifts off to other projects I'm not at liberty to pursue at the moment.  Here's where it goes today:
 

The Cormo.  Yes, I'm still thinking about it.  Not spinning it (Epic powers of self-restraint, Engage!).  Just wishing I were, and then imagining what I would knit from it, and wondering how much finished yarn there will be (I think it's a lot - the fleece is lighter than air and still weighs over 3 pounds), and thinking about all the colors I could dye it, if I were to dye it, or maybe the creamy perfection of the natural color is all I really need...

Phillip is correct:  Spinning is an absolutely great fiber art, because you only pay for a fleece once, but you get to play with it at least three different times:  Spinning, dyeing, knitting.  If you are on the fence about starting spinning, allow me to offer you this gentle shove off it:  You'll get more fiber fun for your money.  It's just being fiscally responsible!  Now go buy a wheel.

The new lace issue of Piecework is available, free when you subscribe, in which this lovely bit of flotsam is published.  It's called The Dragon Scarf.  And while I'm not usually a lace knitter, I think one day I might like to be.  The geometry of this piece really grabs me.  I like the way it's all diamond-y.  And what if it were made in some yarn with a big halo that blurred the sharp edges?  Or a slinky silk with gobs of shine?  Or a crunchy linen for summer that really holds out the sharp corners?  I'm NOT going off in search of a ball of hemp yarn to play with, just to see what happens.  I'm Not.

My friend Sivia is a gifted artist, in the same way that Lance Armstrong is sort of good with a bicycle.  Her brain is absolutely huge, and she's just full of surprises.  Here's a necklace she made.  Another friend of mine brought one like it to knit night a couple of weeks back.  Blew my mind, and now I can't quit thinking about it.  You can get the kit in various colors, and I'm dying to make one to wear to my brother in-law's wedding.  Which is Saturday after next.  As. If.  It's not reasonable at all, unless I stopped all profitable activity.  To the voices in my head: "Shut it.  Book writing = Groceries."

And in case all of the above weren't distraction enough, I still keep thinking about looms.  Stoopid weaving.  Why won't it leave me alone, anyway?  What did I ever do to looms that they will not now get outta my head?  Don't know, but there they still are.  Really?  Just how many ways do I need to be able to play with string, anyway?  I know: How many are there?

So what's on your minds, Gentle Readers?  What's got you distracted?  Weigh in, won't you, so I know I'm not alone in the wistful soup of Project Lust...?

Floored

For those keeping track, after my last update, the score stood thus: Evil Spirits of Homeownership 1, Mary 0.

The good news is that the floor-in-a-box I brought home the other day did its best to live up to its "Easiest Floor In The World!" promise.  I have no yardstick for the difficulty of flooring installation (thank God), but since I lived to tell the tale, I can only assume that "Easy" means something like "This may not suck as badly as you fear".  And Lo, there was a bathroom floor:

Here's a somewhat more traditional view:

Of course, the packaging on the Box O' Floor failed to contain many helpful facts.  For example, while the admonition to let the flooring reach room temperature was nice and all, more useful would have been "Warning: If you are older than 25 years of age, crawling around on your hands and knees to install this product will probably hurt. A Lot."  So much for truth in advertising.  There may have been a time in my life when rolling around on the bathroom floor for the better part of two days would be no big deal to my body.  But this is not that time.  My knees hurt.  My back hurts.  I'm tired of breathing in various fumes. 

But at least it's over now.  And while it wasn't precisely what I had in mind, I did manage to find peace and seclusion from my Spring Break-ing family.  For some reason, they all went quite scarce.  It was around the same time the boxes of flooring came into the house.  While I had hoped that the bathroom painting project would get them out of my hair, I didn't know when I conceived it that I would be the one in the bathroom, while they did other things.  Like run away as fast as their little legs would carry them.  DIY Weanies.

They did come back, though.  About the time I was lying on the floor trying to straighten my spine out again, and wondering how traction really works.  They all said they were really proud of my work, and glad that I had done it.  And then I went downstairs, where I noticed that when Mommy spends two days in the upstairs bathroom, the rest of the house gets destroyed in inverse proportion.  The place was such a wreck that I realized the only clean place to eat dinner was back in the new bathroom.  Campbell thought a picnic was a great idea, and joined me without hesitation.

Now that's dining atmosphere.  Cam and I agreed that the only things missing were some candles, and someone to serenade us with a violin.  Just as well, though. 

They would have had to stand in the bathtub.

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.