Sister Sledgehammer

Martha's jail cell was cozier than this crib.

2008-01-02T23:32:00.000-07:00

During my latest bout of insomnia (recurring; with nostalgia, my NYC neuroses are back), I came across this stellar blog, the Constant Craftsman, while searching for cheap talavera tile and/or xeriscape (best time to invest in the garden is in the dead of winter....The bonus? No weeds! Well, almost.):

Above is the new link to the Craftsman blog, but I actually prefer the old version.

This guy is also remodeling a bungalow, and it looks like he's enduring the same pain as I am (sans the neighborly gunfire). We even have the same ancient furnace from the early 1970's, and know the enduring hell of scraping layers of moldy linoleum from the kitchen floor.

I'm trying to decide on talavera (Mexican-style) tile to use behind the new woodstove (which is actually old; I got it on CL from a retired rich guy with bad taste; he and his pint-sized wife were moving back to her native Bali). My contractor tried to convince me to go with large slabs of saltillo, but, frankly, they looked cheap (they were) and easy (and, really, there's enough of that on my block). I wanted something warm and special; something that looks like it took thought and care, not a few sloppy handfuls of cement. The hearth is the focal point of the nicest room in the entire house, so it's no place to skimp. I'd rather spend a little extra money on nice tile and be happy with it instead of regretting my miserly, bad taste every time I walk through the front door.

The contractor built a raised platform, then plonked down cement tiles (like the kind you'd use for a garden path) inside of it. Easy. I could have done it. (Why didn't I, then?) It's removable, so it won't destroy the original hardwood flooring beneath it, and I can pick it up and store it in the summer (unlikely, but nice that it's possible).

I'm trying to choose from the talaveras offered at a local tile place.

I've got to find tiles that match the quirky, brick-lined wood stove I bought on CL (wicked cheap), which is bright, bleeding red. I could paint it, but I kind of like the way it screams. The rest of the house--and the permanent stuff, most importantly, will stay stark and neutral. I'm going for the Japan-meets-modern, metro loft-mixed with old-school, charming bungalow look. Pretty, no-nonsense, open and airy, simple, but with subtle, charming touches. The house is so small, it would be easy to overwhelm it with lots of busyness. Ideally, it will feel kind of stark and spacious, but warm. Whatever that means. (I'm not kidding anyone: I'm no M. Stewart. If the Connecticut model Martha ever laid eyes on this place, she'd turn on those kitten heels and haul ass out the improperly installed front door. Her jail cell was probably nicer than this place.)

I'm going to attempt to do the tiling myself. I really can't afford to pay someone for the labor, and I know I'd feel really proud if I could accomplish the tiling on my own. It would give me the know-how and the confidence I need to finally tackle the kitchen floor. Rumor has it that tiling is like painting--any doofus can do it.

For the "fireplace" (which translates to: I have to tile the wall so it won't catch fire), I'm envisioning a simple, creamy off-white with an interesting border and/or accents w/ funkier tile that's both classic and matches the contemporary feel of the house (and, most importantly, the faux Tiffany ceiling fan in the living room, which is diagonally above the wood stove area). Feel free to throw in your two cents. I'll take up a collection. (The first photo, above, is of the four top contenders.)

Soaked in Nostalgia: When Brooklyn Looks Cheap, it's Time to Go Home

2007-12-28T22:47:00.001-07:00

(Photos: My Bklyn apt -- clearly far nicer than my house.)

I was homesick already, but it took a $200/mo tax hike to really hit the point home--all the way back to NYC.

Don't get me wrong--I still love New Mexico. I'm enchanted and entrapped, ensnared in its sunny clutches. But, oh, do I pine for NYC. Ache for it. Get nostalgic at the sight of the NYT, or the mere mention of the Mole people. (I miss the Metro section! We can't get that out here.) I'd even give up my washer and dryer. My car. My charmed, simple life. Happily. In a second.

My apartment in NYC (which, by the way, is charming, affordable, and huge--probably a teensy bit smaller than my house, but only by a few sq ft-- by Brooklyn standards) costs LESS per month than my ghetto shack here in the barrio of Burque. Like, significantly less. WTF?! Yeah, it doesn't make any sense to me, either. (And let's not even discuss the kind of cash I'm pouring into this place to make it bearable. Bare minimum bearable. And my salary? Less than half of what it once was. Not that I'm complaining about that. I'm grateful.)

I miss my Saturday morning bagels w/ lox and schmear; the Sunday paper in the park with Pip chasing after the pigeons; walking two blocks to the train to get virtually anywhere; my Metrocard; walking across Prospect Park to Park Slope for evening beers with my best friend. I miss my friends most of all, hands down. No contest. (New Yorkers are extraordinary. There aren't any like 'em in the desert.) I miss going out until 4 a.m., the open-all-night diners (i.e. scarfing a greasy 3-egg veggie omelette after a good party), fast service (with a hairnet, a "whaddaya want, honey," and a Coney Island accent), cupcakes and coffee from Magnolia after a good meal at Cornelia St.; the F train at Smith-9th street at night, lights gleaming across the river; bookstores one can happily get lost in--8 miles of them--and $1 carts stocked with ancient hardcovers; garden bistros in Carroll Gardens in summer; coffee on every corner; the sweet smell of roasted nuts in Union Square; anything you could ever want, even the most obscure, absurd item, within a one-mile radius; not owning a car; walking everywhere; surfing the subway; parquet floors; city cache; communion w/ Woody Allen; the hush that falls when it snows, and how clean the city suddenly looks, and how quiet it gets; dinner parties for no good reason; the Georgia O'Keefe painting of the Brooklyn Bridge at the Bklyn Museum; the simultaneous class, charm, and brash behavior of no-nonsense New Yorkers... So much more. And that's exactly what I'm missing: I know there's more than this. I want it again.

Two years, or less -- and I'm back. (I know, I'm always teasing. But, in time, I know where I'll end up.) God, two years sounds like an eternity...

I talked to a woman tonight (to whom I'm subletting my apt) and she said that NM wouldn't be any fun unless you were married w/ kids, tied down, ...like with sandbags and chains, as are most 20-somethings around here. . It's definitely a settle-down kind of place. Yet settling down sounds thoroughly unappealing. Always has. NYC is my great love, maybe. Two years and I still can't get over it. I'm still as mad for the city as I was in childhood; love it despite its many, ugly flaws.

I realized, recently, why I miss the city so dreadfully: In Burque, I'm bored. Terribly, pitifully, old-lady-in-my-bathrobe bored. Out of my East coast mind. There's no denying that life here is good--and, by comparison, easy. But I'm too young for such sleepy living. At least, that's how I feel, like I'm wasting good years getting enough sleep and staying in on Friday nights. If I hadn't ever lived in NYC, it's possible I'd feel differently. I wouldn't know what I was missing. I don't want to return fully to my party days, but I don't want to die without ever seeing the sun come up from a subway car ever again, or seeing an incredible reading, or having a NYC moment.

In New Mexico, I feel free. In New York, I feel like I'm home. Both places, no doubt, are magical. I can't seem to let go of love for either.

Through the roof

2007-12-18T14:34:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just a bad day, or I really did make a bad decision in buying this house. Some bureacrats voted on a HUGE tax increase, so my payment is now MORE THAN MY RENT IN NYC. Now, that's just nuts. I'm sorry. For this dump? In this 'hood? (Someone stole my fucking flowerpots--flowers and all--while I was away on vacation.) I'm often tempted to move back to NYC (I know, I know, how I tease!), and this is just one more kick in the hotpants. I can't afford to live in a crappy, ghetto shack in a supposedly cheap, relatively unsophisticated city, but I can afford rent in Brooklyn? Fuggghedaboudit.

There's a real catch-22 situation here: I can't afford my new mortgage payment (based solely on tax increases), which I could afford (it would be better, at least), if I didn't have to pay a PMI every month, but I can't wipe that off until I finish the renovation -- which, of course, takes money. If I sold now, no doubt, I'd lose money. Maybe I should fix it up, rent it out to college kids or a couple, and set up shop somewhere else? (Oh, but everything else here, just about, is so good...)

Smashing Pumpkins: 5k addiction continues

2007-10-28T10:38:00.000-06:00

It seems I've temporarily ditched my sledgehammer for sneakers . I ran another 5k this morning, dubbed the "Pumpkin Chase." Some of my competitors were dressed cutely in costume. Me? I was decked out, from head to toe, in Spandies. Ready to run. Ready to smash some pumpkin ass. Forget the face paint and "for the fun of it" Halloween garb. (Who wants to run in a pirate's eye patch and beard, anyhow? Never mind a peg leg!) No, my friends. Not for me. I was there to kick booty and take names, bringin' the A game. I was determined to break last weekend's 27 min time in the Duke City, which was my first 5k ever.

Today's course was more hilly, so I didn't bust as hard as I probably could have, but I was less nonchalant than last week. And I shaved two minutes from my time. Two minutes, bitches. In a week. With no training. Not even a jog around the block. Boo-freakin'-yah. I crossed the finish line at 25 (almost exactly) min. Next time? I'm going for 23. Eat my dust, pumpkins!

First 5K. Psyched!

2007-10-21T08:08:00.000-06:00

Ow, momma! I just finished my first 5K and feel freakin' psyched! I had to get up at the ass crack of dawn after a fitful sleep, but as soon as I toed the starting line (not exactly...I took a friend's advice to drop back to help pace myself, then pass the heaving, galumphing suckers later on) in the freezing cold, I was totally excited. And I was faster than I thought! Worst case, I imagined I'd finish in 30 min. My goal was to finish in 28 or under. Happily, I'm slightly faster than I thought.

I don't own a watch, never time myself, seldom do sprints, and often stop to wrangle Rex from the Rio Grande during my training runs (which were once just for fun and, really, still are). So, when I finished in 27 min (almost even...27:12, I think? Final results aren't posted yet, but I saw it on the clock), I was freakin' psyched! I didn't run fast--imagine if I had! I don't usually run continually bc I'm always having to stop--for Rex, for traffic, to tie my shoe, to change the tune on my iPod (which I raced w/o), bc I want to...I have myriad excuses. So, I wasn't sure how I'd feel without the brief walking break. (Granted, when I do run, I usually go much farther than 5k; usually 6-8 miles.) I have asthma, and sometimes, feel like I really need a walking break to catch my breath. I didn't want to bust out full-speed and have to walk to the finish like a tired, old fatty. But I wasn't short of breath, tired, or sore. Not at all. I took it pretty slow, actually, and stayed at the back of the front pack. I wish I'd sprinted the 1.5 back to the finish line, but...next time. I could have done it!

I've always been more about my brain than my body, and never very competitive about sports. But I do relish an honest challenge, especially when it means competing with myself...pushing myself beyond what I believe is my limit. (This is why I love the yoga. So hardcore, no competition, except with my own mind. Om, baby. Om.)

I find it pretty incredible that I ran a race at all...for fun. Wasn't I the kid who would sneak behind the bleachers during gym class to smoke Marlboros with my best friend? The girl who used her inhaler to get through the dreaded gym class mile? The asthmatic chick who subsisted on smokes and martinis, and hang-over cures for seven years? So kick-ass. The only part of me that's still pretty rough is my lungs (though I wasn't wheezing or hacking, as were many of my peers...who I left in my imaginary dust).

I liked the 5K because its runners ran the gamut...literally. They ranged from gangly kids (one of whom looked just like me, and finished at almost the same time) to super-ripped, bionic studs with calf muscles like mallets. (I passed my favorite hottie in the third mile.) I knew I wouldn't be up there with the pro-guys, but that I'd at least do better than the chubby moms who whined that they hadn't trained in three weeks, if at all. That gave me a surge of confidence, and helped me to take the whole thing less seriously. Nevertheless, wicked fun times! Bring it on, again! (I should also say that my kid sister is like our own little Kenyan. She ran her first 5k earlier this fall and, w/ virtually no training, finished in 22 minutes. I'll have what she's having.)

Results (I'm a division winner. Pretty cool!): http://runraceresults.com/ResultsFrame.asp?Ev=RCLS2007&Rc=5&tp=W

Scrub a 'Dub 'Dub

2007-09-08T13:55:00.000-06:00

Remember what the bathroom used to look like? I wouldn't even touch the shower handles. Now, they're all new and shiny. It's not completely done, but there's a totally new floor (new sub, topped with saltillo tile), all new hardware in the shower, and a new sink and mirror. Here's what it looks like now (much better, though the photos don't do it justice...for a quick comparison, check out pics in old posts). Also, some extra pics, too:

For Your Viewing Pleasure

2007-09-08T13:41:00.001-06:00

Lots going on, but, for now, I'll let pictures speak louder than words. I finally got some furniture, which has made the house feel more cozy. It's coming along!

Me n' Mattie, during his visit

2007-08-23T23:15:00.000-06:00

My little brother, Matt, stayed with me for much of the summer. Here's a shot of us, just after I let him sip my beer.

A Curse Upon Your House!

2007-08-23T22:44:00.001-06:00

Quickly, because I can't resist, though it's well past my bed-time...

I've made the decision to go full-time freelance. It's a big one, for several reasons, not the least of which is this: that's why I moved here. Over the weekend, while on a press trip to Seattle, I realized it. I was reading the NYT with my feet propped on a pillow, in a terry robe, drinking an '04 vintage pinot noir and popping hand-made chocolates into my mouth, thinking, this is work? All of it was free (all expenses paid) -- and I was paid to do (and, of course write about) it. Despite my gross overindulgence in little-known luxuries (like organic brut champagne, oysters, a ninety minute massage...), the trip shook me awake, and screamed for me to quit my job. (Quite literally, a new found friend, a NYT reporter, did, too.) So, after two days of playing hooky while on my working "vacation," I did. The morning I returned, I handed my boss the letter. I gave them thirty days. That said, I'm at once thrilled and terrified. In the long-term, I think I'll make three times as much as I've made as a teacher. But in the beginning, turning a profit may prove trying. I'm trying to be both optimistic and realistic, so I've been searching for a roommate. In short, it's been a saga:

In May, I met a woman who wanted to move in, but not until July. She seemed cool, so I held out for her until then. She signed the lease, gave me her deposit, then bailed because her house, down the block, had been burglarized. The neighborhood, obviously not Beverly Hills, sent her running -- to Rio Rancho. For those of you unfamiliar with RR, imagine a desert town where there is nothing but big-box stores and little box houses. Cooking-fucking-cutter.

The next guy, who I have a weird, roundabout connection to (which, for the time, will go unexplained), signed the lease and gave me his deposit last night. He called me this afternoon to say he can't move in. I'm presuming his current landlord won't release him -- which he should have frikkin' checked before singing my lease.

I interviewed another guy this afternoon, who was cool until he revealed himself to be a Bush-loving racist. I threw the redneck fucker off the front porch and told him never to come back. (I actually cried afterward, partly because I've never experienced racism the way I have in NM. Because I'm blond, those ignorant fuckers always expect me to agree.)

Tonight, I got a call from a cool-sounding college girl who was riding her bike in the rain. She said she was on her way over. The rain was torrential, so I prep'd a towel and sweatshirt for her and put on the kettle for tea. About an hour later, after I'd been fretting b/c she was so late (did she crash? lose her way in the dark? get accosted by a lusty drug dealer?!?), her friend called me from the emergency room of Presbyterian Hospital to tell me that the girl had been hit by a truck on her way over. My knees buckled as she said the words. By some great mercy, the girl is just fine, her friend reported. Thank god. I was practically weeping by the end of our conversation. I feel partly responsible, like I should have offered to pick her up. Getting in a car with a crazy-driving stranger (me) would probably have been safer.

Ugh. In New York, finding a roommate was never this hard! And I really need to find someone -- soon -- so I don't completely lose my mind fretting over finances. I need a roommie to float my income, at least for the time being.

Anyhow, apologies for being a deadbeat blogger. Finally, I'm back in action.

The high price of crack

2007-06-14T09:11:00.000-06:00

Miguel is, by far, the best person I've had working for me. He just rode up on his bicycle one day, while I was yanking the enormous weeds from the front yard with both hands, and asked if he could help. He was wearing one of those orange, reflective vests, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. "I can help you with los weed-ays," he said, tearing one from the ground with one bare hand. "I strong. I fast. I can help you!" He pointed to me emphatically, then to the wagon he had tied to the back of his bicycle, which was full of rakes, shovels, picks, and other tools stuffed into a plastic trash can and tied down with rope.

Miguel wasn't the first person to stop by looking for work. The meth addicts and the crackheads (my neighbors) have all wanted a piece of the action since the beginning. But Miguel, I could tell, was different. He didn't gasp for air or struggle to look me in the eye. His eyes weren't bloodshot, nor did they bug out of his head like fried oysters, wet and crusty. He looked clean, and had all of his teeth, except for one, which had been replaced by a square of gold. He was off of his bike, pulling weed-ays from the ground like a machine, whipping them out by the roots. "I can do los weed-ays?" he asked. "Very good work for you!" I told him that I was sure he was a good worker, but that I couldn't afford to pay someone to weed my yard; I could do that myself. (I confess, however, that I've learned I'm much more inclined to pay someone to do something I don't particularly care to do. When it comes to fixing up the house, I'm into outsourcing. If I had the cash, this place would be done. Sure, I claim to be a do-it-yourselfer. But, really, I much prefer to be a pay-you-to-do-it-er. So much easier that way! It's like running a little corporation.)

I told Miguel I wouldn't pay him for the weeds, but that he could put up the wooden fence I'd bought months ago. Could he do that? Miguel did the fence and the weed-ays, cleaned my hideous backyard (littered with a decade's worth of dog shit, plastic action figures, crushed beer cans, and soggy cigarettes), and has been continually happy throughout. "Look, look!" he tells me, waving me over to show off his work. He takes the plastic level from his pocket, which is probably no longer than a foot, and holds it to the fence at every angle. "Look! It's level! I do good work for you! I work very, very fast." And it's true. I tell Miguel, in my broken Spanish (he, in turn, speaks to me in broken English), that he did a buen trabajo, muy rapido, y tienes mucho cuidado. "Siiiiiii," he groans, nodding his head. "Very good. Very careful. Good work for you!" I tell him that I am muy feliz, por que no puedo see the crackheads across the street any longer, now that the fence is up. "They used to stare at me whenever I washed the dishes," I told him. "They could see right through the kitchen window." I give Miguel the thumbs up, and a muchas gracias for his buen trabajo. "No more drogas," I tell him, and he winks. I've already pointed out most of my neighborhood drug dealers to Miguel, just so he's privy. They're always asking me for work, and, after hiring one of them months ago (when I'd first bought the house and didn't have any wits), I know their game. I don't even want them looking at my house, never mind welcome them onto my property and give them work. Miguel understands. "Ay, siii! I see them, ah, smoking the pipe! Pipe over there on the ground." He points to the neighbors driveway. "Si," I say. "Como se dice, ah, how do you say, smoking crack?" Miguel opens his mouth in shock. "Smoke-ah the crack?" He shakes his head. "Noooo." He clucks his tongue, tsk, tsk, and says, "Ah, that is horr-eeb-lay!" I agree, and Miguel goes back to busting the hideous concrete wall around my front yard.

Miguel noticed three Elm trees on the side of my house, where I've been keeping Pip, the ever-pooping puppy, that need to be cut down -- stat. They'd already grown into the roof when I bought the house, shoving their way through the gutter and to the sky, and the inspector told me that I should have them cut immediately. Likewise, Miguel warned that the roots would grow beneath my house, strangling pipes and bursting them with wrestling-strength grip. I agreed to pay Miguel extra to cut down the trees to prevent total disaster (they're growing right outside of my bathroom), and he proceeded to look for help to do it. It's a serious job, as the trees are big, and growing over my and my neighbor's houses. Disaster, although not imminent, isn't easily avoided: shattered windows, broken fences, dinged stucco, dead dogs... If one branch makes one false move, it could all be over.

Miguel interviewed a few people for the job, including the ice cream man who pushes his cart up and down the block, ringing a bell and screaming, "heladoooooooos!" at the top of his lungs. Everyone was asking too much ($600 to $3,000, to all of which Miguel said, "riduculo!"), except for the crackhead junkie who agreed to do it for $200. He and his woman knocked on my door the day prior, asking me if I wanted to buy paint that they'd clearly stolen from somewhere else. I told them I had plenty, before slamming the door. These are not neighbors you want to befriend. Actually, they're homeless, but their primary dealer lives in the house behind me (with his fucking mother, who walks to church every Sunday and offers a dainty wave as she strolls by, arm-in-arm with her elderly boyfriend). Miguel didn't ask me before he hooked up the deal, and although I was upset that he'd selected a strung-out crackhead and his whore (seriously) for help, I figured things would be cool. Miguel is a good guy and, as I understood it, they'd be helping him -- not doing the work themselves.

When I left that night for dinner with a friend, Miguel rushed over to the car with a last-minute thought: "No pay them," he said, pointing to me. "No give them money, you. I give them money. Okay?" I told him I wouldn't, that I understood their arrangement. After a lovely dinner, I returned home in darkness to find four crackheads in my yard: the two guys manning a chainsaw and spotlight, while their bitches smoked joints in my front yard. The dog wasn't even barking. What the fuck was going on?!

"Oh, hiii," the ladies said, as if we were old friends, as if I was about to invite them in for a frikkin' nightcap. The guy beckoned me over to the side yard to show me the trees. "See? No damage! No damage!" he practically screamed, pointing to the trees (which weren't completely cut down -- not even close). In the darkness, I heard another man beside me. It was my drug dealer neighbor, with a chainsaw in his hand. Suddenly, I was sandwiched between two crackhead, in the dark, and one of them was holding a chainsaw. This is not a situation I hoped to be in, ever, and especially after leaving NYC. It was like a wetta sandwich, on two slickes of crackhead. (Sounds delicious.) I couldn't see shit in the dark, so whether or not there was any damage, I couldn't tell. It was already after nine, and I told them they'd have to leave by nine thirty. "It'll only take five minutes," they said. "No problem."

My brother, who's been staying with me (thank god), told me that Roger was helping so he could get a deal that night -- the crackheads would get paid for the job, pay Roger, and get their fix. And to all, a good night. Crackheads, happily ever after. I recalled Miguel's warning not to pay them (which I had no intention of doing -- they're not working for me, but Miguel) and approached the two ladies who had made themselves at home on my front lawn. They were chain-smoking joints and cigarettes (who knows what else) and wearing heavy make-up, despite the summer heat. "I uh, I just want to make sure...I didn't want to interrupt the guys while they'r working, so I thought I'd tell you..." They stared at me, smiling too hard, as I tried to get the words out. They were pretty short, but I bet they were nasty fighters. "I want to make it clear that Miguel is going to pay you, not me. That was the deal, as I understand it." They nodded. "Oh, yeah. Of course," they said. "Sure." My brother had said they'd wanted me to call Miguel -- but he doesn't have a phone. I told them so. "He'll pay you tomorrow," I said. "That's the deal."

I left home for the movies, after I'd tossed them out of the yard at nine thirty, a little shaken up, but thinking they'd return in the morning, as promised. My brother called, not twenty minutes after I'd left, to report that they were back, begging for money, screeching for pity on my front porch. I asked him if I should call the cops, but he said he had it under control. Rex was being a big pussy, meanwhile. My brother called again later in the night (twice, I think?), saying they were back, begging, looking for me. He said I should stay away for the night. I was FUMING! The third time, I called the cops, who sent three squad cars (according to bro), and, if nothing else, the homeless, beggar crackheads noticed and left us alone for the night -- until this morning. They literally just showed up again, and I gave them a sweet piece of hell for disturbing our peace all night. "But we just wanna get paid for the work we did," they whined. I told them it wasn't finished -- not even close -- and that they're working for Miguel, not for me, and to take it up with him.

Seriously, this shit is going to make me want to start smoking crack. I don't want to escape reality, just the clutches of being a wetta in the ghetto. I'm renting/selling stat. I'm always asking myself if this endeavor is worth it's price. Sometimes, it feels too high.

More photos, more progress (bank acct extra-dry, like a martini)!

2007-06-13T14:42:00.001-06:00

Progress!: New Photos

2007-06-13T14:04:00.000-06:00

2007-05-28T12:11:00.001-06:00

Since my last post, when I was dreaming of hacking off my hair and swinging from jungle vines like some Amazonian Jane, I've switched to fantasizing about moving back East. I've been thinking about this prospect for a few months, but hesitated to divulge b/c I don't want all y'all to get too excited, or make promises I can't keep. I've had a not-so-secret plan all along, though, which is to buy my NYC apt. with the money I make from the sale of my house. So, now the secret is out! Start spreadin' it.

I'm also realizing that I may be more of a renter than an owner. In an apt., I don't have to remember trash day or install a new water heater. I call the super (and, sometimes, the slum lord) and insist he get his reefer-smoking heine to my door, stat. It's simple. Owning a home has all kinds of caveats I'm unaccustomed to -- and that I dislike! Hell, I don't even like to clean. There was some writer...I forget who it was...who said that her house is always messy, and that's what she sacrifices to get her writing done. Amen, sister. I can't even see my desk, for all the dust and debris! I'm so disinclined to clean, in fact, that I actually leave the house to do my writing. (Which, lately, hasn't been working out, due to several unattractive coffee shop stalkers. See? In NYC, everyone minds their own blessed business! Unfriendliness isn't always bad.)

My brother is in town for a few weeks, so I'm trying to milk him for slave labor. He's reluctant, and likes to sleep 'til noon, but I'm persistent about putting the paintbrush in his capable hand. I want to get this place done this summer so that I can get closer to selling, even if that's a year (or more) away. More importantly, I'm intent on fixing it up to decrease the stress of it!

Tomorrow marks the start of summer vacation, but I'm already having nightmares about teaching next year. (Crazy? You fucking betcha. AK, I know, I know. I give you full permission to sock me across the noggin, right where it hurts. Knock some sense into me!) But the line-up sounds kinda fun: I'll be teaching TV production (about which I know absolutely nothing), speech and debate/mock trial, and newspaper/journalism. I'll still have duties as an evil administrator (split part-time w/ part-time teaching...which probably equals overtime), which I'm dreading. How did I get from the dark side to the even darker? (Wool! Over my eyes!)

In the meantime, before the madness begins, I'm making a concerted effort to enjoy my two months of sweet summa-time. I can't wait to drink beer and bbq veg-style in the backyard, once I've cordoned it off from the crackheads! When I do, you're all invited to the party. (And, yes, I must post pics!)

Life with the Yetis

2007-04-17T14:49:00.000-06:00

I’m entertaining fantasies of chopping off my hair and living in a yurt, somewhere in the forest. No credit cards, no mortgage, no checkbook, no paper work, no driving, no crackhead neighbors. Just me and the dogs and the trees.

I hate my fucking job.

Damnit.

New Pics: Poplar Trim!

2007-04-15T14:30:00.000-06:00

C'mon, you know you missed me.

2007-04-13T05:38:00.000-06:00

It’s four o’clock in the morning and my mind is restless, but all my body wants to do is curl into the sheets and go back to sleep. Rex is hogging most of the bed. Pip is snoring. Just thought of going down the street to the all-night diner for some green chile-smothered eggs; sitting with the sketch-balls who frequent the place, which looks like it’s straight out of a smoke-filled 1960’s flick starring blonde waitresses donning bouffant hair-dos, long cigarettes dripping from their mouths into the food.

I’ve been on hiatus for too long. But I’ve got serious excuses. Before I get to those, I’ll tell you what happened last night.

I was on my way out, getting into my car, when one of the most prominent drug dealers in the neighborhood (the one who’s always wearing a track suit that looks like my grandma’s pajamas) approached.
“Hey, girl,” he said, crossing the street towards me with a beer. “Whatchoo doin? Where you goin’ this late?”
Shit.
“Nowhere,” I said. “Just to pick something up, then I’m coming right back.” Translation: not enough time for you to break into my house.
“Whatchoo doin’ with that there window?” he pointed to the nine-foot slider I have propped against the fence. I shrugged.
“Not sure yet,” I told him.
“What kinda music you listen to?” I knew then that this exchange was headed in a very bad direction.
“Um, a little bit of everything, I guess.” It’s best to be non-specific, I think, when you want to show disinterest.
“Damn right!” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “I walked by yo’ house one day and you was listenin’ to rap! Damn, girl, I was trippin’!”
I told him I was from Brooklyn…which is sort of true. Kind of.
“Is that guy you who comes ‘round here, is he yo’ man?” He meant the contractor, who I banished from the house about a month ago (story to follow).
“What guy?” I asked.
“That dude. With that big black dog? He always gettin’ dropped off by some fat chick?”
“No,” I said. “He’s not.”
“So you ever dated a black man before?”
“Several,” I said.
“You like it?” As in, do you like big, black cock, little white girl?
“They were nice men,” I said, getting the shivers. The truth is, they weren’t very nice men; their character wasn’t as firm as their members. Here, the drug dealer proceeded to drape his six-foot-four body, reeking of Tecate, over mine, and whisper,
“You’s a very fine female, you know.”
Um, thanks? “You’s gots a man?” I almost told him I was a lesbian, but I didn’t want to cause undue excitement. So, I lied and said, yes, I do. And he has a gun and a dog and has killed a man with his bare hands in my honor. So, pretty please, go back to your boys and your beer. Don’t get your ‘do rag in a twist.

So, what’s happened? Where have I been? Why did I banish the contractor? I’ll try to make this saga short.

I’d been feeling frustrated by the contractor for a long time. I felt as though he wasn’t doing shit around my house – at least, no more than making idle messes and leaving them for me to pick up. He’d start something, but never finish it. There were semi-demolished structures throughout the house, which I worried jeopardized the building’s integrity and put me at risk for a citation by the health dept. I worried the house would be condemned if the wrong person were to find out I was living in it. I felt like I was being taken advantage of, and that my concerns, which I voiced very reasonably (time after time), were falling on deaf (and possibly retarded…definitely very stoned) ears. When I’d raise a concern, he’d condescend to me like I was a stupid girl-child who didn’t know shit about construction. And maybe I don’t, but I do have common sense. The guy was a serious stoner, which I didn’t have a major issue with, except for the fact that we live a mere block away from an elementary school. It’s not the kind of neighborhood where anyone’s likely to get busted for pot, but it was still a liability. Moreover, he was clumsy and disrespectful, and constantly complaining. Totatlly irresponsible (i.e. setting off the alarm and sending the cops to my house; losing his keys on a daily basis; leaving his enormous, aggressive dog alone in his room w/o food or water for days at a time; asking me to baby sit his nieces when he’d already agreed to do it; dumping refuse from another job in my yard; breaking shit all the time…)

Worse, he had my future planned for the next ten to twenty years: we were going to go into business together, fix up houses, and get rich. Now, that idea’s all well and good, except for a few key points: 1) He has nothing to bring to the business (his work is sloppy, he’s unmotivated, and totally broke), and 2) I didn’t move here to become a real estate mogul or strike it rich. I came here to write and live simply. To be happy. That’s all. His incessant jive about “when we do our next house,” and on and on, set my jaw off-kilter and stirred panic in my chest. He made me feel claustrophobic.

During what may have been one of the hardest weeks of my life (esp. work-wise), and while I was sick (suffering bronchitis, which morphed into pneumonia), the contractor’s dog nearly killed Rex. He’d left the dog in his bedroom (sans sustenance, of course) for about three days. I’d been taking care of it, as always: I fed the dog (with MY dog food, because he never bought any and would just use mine when and if he did feed the dog), let it outside, and gave it water and affection. The dog had been really aggressive with Rex in the past, and had attacked him on several occasions. I’d told the contractor that this couldn’t happen any more – that the next time, something awful could happen. And it did.

My neighbors, three Mexican men and the nice guy from next door, had to beat the dog off of Rex with a shovel. Trying to break up a dog fight – two snarling, biting, growling beasts trying to kill one another with their gleaming teeth and hundred-pound bodies – is a terrifying thing. Before the guys came running (and thank GOD they did), I was screaming like a wretch and trying to kick the dogs apart with my foot (as I’d seen the contractor do previously, after he’d encouraged the dogs to fight by giving all of his attention to Rex…the idiot). His dog didn’t suffer a scratch. Rex, however, could barely walk. The contractor came home for no more than a minute to pick something up (and steal some of my tools) and told me I was making a big deal out of nothing (meanwhile, Rex unable to move, bleeding profusely from multiple puncture wounds, clearly in very, very bad shape…and me, with a painful puncture wound on my ankle, from where his dog had bitten me…I was in bad pain from just one bite, and couldn’t imagine how much pain Rex was feeling). The fucking asshole took off and disappeared for three days. I tried calling him, but to no avail.

Rex’s vet bill cost over $600. My medical care was expensive, too, and both of us were on serious drugs for a few weeks. That weekend, I got pneumonia. I lost my voice. Fever of 102. Neither one of us could walk. At the hospital, I had to report the bite. At the vet, I had to report the attack. The dog, I’m sure, doesn’t have its rabies vacc, nor is it neutered or licensed (all against the law). For the contractor, this spells deep doggie doo-doo.

The contractor remained MIA. I didn’t see or hear from him for five days.

I deliberated: was this situation working out? No. Was it more trouble than it was worth? Absolutely. On the unanimous advice of numerous friends, I threw the bastard out. I put all of his shit in the yard and called his mom, because I knew where she worked, and she was the only one I could get a hold of. The contractor stole expensive tools from me. I cursed him out on the phone, letting loose my inner banshee. I don’t remember the last time I screamed like that. Maybe since I was a girl.

The guy is seriously delusional. He lives in a world where everything’s all right, all the time. He’s the kind of guy who gets a bill and shrugs, throws it in the fire and sparks up a joint. (In retrospect, I wonder now if he was schizo. Seriously.) I don’t know who was more dangerous, the guy or his dog.

More drama: While I was bed-ridden with pneumonia, there were constant visits to the house by gruff police officers, looking for the contractor and his dog. One of them threatened me, and accused me of covering for the guy. I told him, as politely as possible with my squeaky pneumonia voice, that if he didn’t rescind his threat and apologize, that he could get the fuck off of my porch. The next police officer was ever the gentleman. He took a picture of the puncture wound on my obscenely hairy leg, and despite the fact that I looked like a white trash wretch out of COPS, called several times to check up on me – and asked me out. I was so caught off guard, I actually agreed. Me? And a COP? Suffice it to say, my intuition, as ever, was dead-on: like most of the police officers I’ve ever met (and, mind you, I’m always on the straight-and-narrow), he was a total, absolute jackass. Skeeve. Major, major skeeve. Now, he’s stalking me. I’ve seen him drive by my house a bunch of times, despite his telling me, over drinks, that he’s “never in the neighborhood” I live in. He tried to impress me with his megabucks, which he makes investing in real estate. “I’m not just a dogcatcher, baby,” he said. And he actually fucking winked. I had to stifle the urge to run. No, I should have said. But you ARE a TOTAL dickhead.

I found a new contractor right away, who I’m paying hourly (more than twice the money I make) and who doesn’t live in my house (amen!). He loves to bitch and moan, and he’s definitely an odd duck, but he does good work, and I kinda like the guy for his quirks. Most people, I’m guessing, wouldn’t put up with his oddities, but his work is so meticulous – and I really don’t mind. He’s always complaining about shit that the old contractor did sloppily. So, it wasn’t just my ignorant suspicion: the guy was a hack. He made more work, and cost me more money, than hiring someone would have. At least, if I had, things would have gotten done.

Finally, my house is REALLY coming together. The new front door and all of the windows are installed. Most are trimmed in that beautiful poplar. My cabinets arrived just a few hours ago: 37 different pieces for me to assemble. I have all new kitchen appliances; just using the ‘fridge for now. More drywall up, and hired another stoner (ugh, so many out here) to fix the stucco on the outside of the house. I promise to post pictures very soon. The house is actually beginning to look pretty cute. I’ve got flowers in the front yard, a Chinese lantern on the porch, and bushes with purple blossoms flowering like mad. Lilacs, I think, and the scent wafts into the house with the breeze.

Still don’t know what I’m going to do with this place, or what I’m going to do once the summer’s up. Trying not to get too far ahead of myself with plans, but my intention over the summer is to finish the book, for chrissake, and test my full-time freelancing career, which I hope to kick-off SOON. Like, as in, next school year. This is me: http://therenegadewriter.com/?p=273 Also, scored another assignment for the women’s glossy (hooray!), as my editor was pleased with my last assignment. More of my stuff for the local rag I love so much at www.alibi.com.

The drama has a happy ending: I got a great reason to kick the contractor to the curb, which I’d been lusting to do, and Rex and I are both breathing and walking and sturdy again. At last, the house is shaping up. It’s also made me ask a big question of myself: is it worth it? As for this house, I don’t know yet. It’s all a great, big gamble.

photo extravaganzaaaaaaaah!

2007-03-03T16:36:00.000-07:00

addendum to scoring crack...photos

2007-03-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

Scoring Crack in Iraq

2007-03-03T16:15:00.000-07:00

Just as I began to twitch with worry, my application for a fixed, super-low rate home equity loan was approved. I celebrated with a swig of cheap, Mexican beer and fell promptly asleep. All that’s left to do is sign on the dotted line. The bank didn’t even do an appraisal! I’m psyched. Now I can stop fretting and, finally, buy a new ‘fridge. The old one is freezing my veggies, and that’s where I draw the line. I love me some veggies, damnit.

I was hesitant to follow through with the loan application, because I’m frightened by the prospect of paying so much interest – almost as much money as I’m borrowing. But, the truth is, I won’t need twenty years to pay it off (and I made certain there’s no penalty for early payment). If I make a decent profit on this place, it won’t be an issue. I consulted my dad, a money mastermind, for advice, and he said that homeowner’s debt is “good” debt, and that I should go ahead. Getting approval from the man who wouldn’t let us order drinks with our dinners out (tap water for everyone, waiter!) because it was “too expensive” is very assuring.

Neighborhood activity has been stirring with the warmth of spring. In winter, the crackheads hibernate like grizzly bears. Or like vampires, hiding from the light. On warmer nights, they’re out in packs, pulling up to dealers’ houses, blaring horns and Spanish pop music, and, sometimes, dancing in their front yards.

My favorite crackhead, L., who is also the tiniest, most toothless woman I’ve ever known, gave me news that she’s leaving the ‘hood for “something better”: Iraq.

Something better? I kept my thoughts to myself, gave her a hug, and wished her well. She said she’d send postcards. This woman is, like, fifty-something years old – and a bipolar crackhead. She just got out of the psych ward after being picked up at home in an ambulance and locked up in a rubber room. And our country’s sending her to WAR?! WTF?! Wrong on so many levels. Later, I wondered, ‘How’s she going to score crack in Iraq?’ I wonder if she’s worried, too. (Scary: she was EXCITED; can’t wait to go.)

Here’s an old post that I started writing, but never published:

I woke this morning (late, after a debaucherous evening of sledging, beer, and some herbal remedies) to discover that the contractor had demolished that horrible wall between the kitchen and the laundry/back entry room. It looks SO much better – no longer like it’s home to hobbits who use 4-foot high doorways and have the shoulder span of Ooompa Loompas. Now, it’s big and open and modern (but with those old-school charms intact). Also, got my windows delivered for a deal price (they look sweet, but still have to install ‘em). More drywall up in the kitchen. Finally bought a shop-vac to suck up the dust. So much better!

I went to town wielding the contractor’s nail gun…and I’m starting to dig firearms! In this neighborhood, I figure it won’t hurt if people think I’m armed.

Photos (descriptions in no particular order):

Late-night construction, w/ beer in-hand. (Perfect combo: booze and power tools. When else do I get to drink on the job?)

A newspaper clipping (photo of bride) we found behind some old trim. In kitchen, discovered 1961 Beatles trading card…which we later discovered is absolutely worthless.

In kitchen/dining rooms: See the walls we knocked out? And the old exterior wood? Yeah, my house had a wood exterior, back in the day. Screw the stucco! (I hate stucco!)

A few photos of me w/ the sledgehammer…and the nail gun. I confess: power tools make me feel, well, powerful! (Idea: maybe I could make a calendar of these photos, “Powertool Princess 2008?” And make some bank to pay off the loan?! But, I am NOT wearing a bikini.)

Also, the saving grace: our shop vac!

Two seconds later...

2007-02-17T09:28:00.001-07:00

...I found an apprentice to work with my contractor. Kickass!

Bitch Sesh

2007-02-17T09:01:00.000-07:00

I admit to feeling anxiety over all of this remodeling. Living in a construction zone is really starting to get under my skin -- but ony because we have an agreed-upon deadline, and because the contractor is ever-optimistic about finishing, but doesn't actually finish. (A classic contractor tale, no?) I know it will get done eventually, but what's really driving me nuts is that I don't have a kitchen. Everything's still hooked up, but I'm truly sick of preparing my food amidst such squalor. And meeting that March first deadline? Show me a miracle. I guess I'm also frustrated b/c there's so little of this stuff that I can do on my own. It's not that I wouldn't -- I can't. It's physically impossible, or I don't know how. I know I have to either let go my frustration or hire someone to help (I'm looking). Moreover, I hate feeling so whiny. The good news is that my house is worth almost $160K now. Schweeeet!

Photos:

Bullet holes through the stop sign on the corner, at sunset (see the loft in the background! making progress); dark view into my very messy office/desk; nearby church; Rex at park w/ a crazy look in his eye; painting the lv. room...which is STILL not finished, for f's sake.

Simply photos...for now

2007-02-10T22:41:00.000-07:00

Just photos for now. Too exhausted to update! Will write soon.

Sweet smell of summer (success)? And: God bless A-Mexica!

2007-02-07T19:09:00.000-07:00

Since the weather's turned warm, I've been more focused on fixing up the house -- and, possibly, others. I think I'm afflicted with that Seasonal Affective Disorder...or, maybe I just don't get enough vitamin D. All I know is this: since it's been seventy degrees, I've been a million times more motivated, productive, and blonde-chick-chipper.

The contractor and I are talking about going into business, which I think, prospectively, has serious potential. There aren't many people who can live like this (in total construction squalor, financial uncertainty, and detachment), but, like him, I live for this kind of life. I love it more than any 9-5 day job, or any kind of stability I can imagine. It's not boring, I'm my own boss, and I'm doing stuff I like: cruising ReStore for cool, cheap salvage materials (bought a Pella 3-panel wooden, sliding French door today for $150 -- imagine! It probably cost well over $1K, retail. And it's fucking gorgeous -- and HUGE. Nearly 8ft wide, I think), making executive decisions, playing with numbers, figuring stuff out, and making ugly crap appealing; generally, creating. I revel in having so few material goods, so little in the way of roots, so little to bog me down. It's liberating. And, I hope, a sustainable, profitable lifestyle.

I realized today that all of this has been a long time coming: I have a consistent history of making something out of nothing, as far as salvaging and refurbishing goes. In Brooklyn, I was always bringing junk up from the basement garbage pile to refinish or reuse. And, for years, I've been scoping out real estate, namely in NYC and NM, and have wanted to prettify some ramshackle hovel; make it habitable -- and make a pretty penny, too. Now, I've got one hell of an ugly house -- and things are really starting to come together. I've hired a friend of the contractor's to help us out, which will make things move quickly. They're building the kitchen cabinets (I'm paying the friend in cheap beer!), and this wknd, will install the front door (gorgeous! retailed for almost $7K...I got it for a fraction of that, new, b/c it was a display). We're planning major demolition in the kitchen for Friday - Sunday: ripping out all of the walls (which are totally, permanently destroyed from paneling and painted wallpaper) and replacing them with insulation and fresh drywall. We may have time to paint, too, if the drywall mud dries and sets in time. I hope, too, that we can tackle the living room (and maybe the dining room) soon, as the walls are pretty much finished. It's the little stuff (electrical outlets, random holes, etc.) that slows us down. I'm psyched to start making things PRETTY. And to start working outside in this outrageous weather.

The contractor and I talked about maybe doing this from city to city...chasing the "hot" real estate zones, turning a shack into a chateau (w/ a "green" bent), and making bank -- continually. I'm down, if this place works out. And I have faith it will. I think this might be the perfect solution to my job-hopping, nomadic, self-steering nature: writing, traveling, and remodeling. If I make enough bank off of this place, I can hire some Mexicans to help, next time 'round. God bless aMexica!

Today: filled out a bunch of paperwork so that I can pick up the new windows and begin installing; in ReStore, spent a few hours searching for perfect door (found it!); placed order at HD for a bajillion bucks, for pick up on Friday; discovered that Pip's cataracts have gone full-throttle...poor old guy has gone blind in one eye, looks like. Made me think about getting old and not wasting my life investing in worthless, dead-end endeavors. (At a meeting this morning, one of my bosses, w/ whom I'm pretty close, told me that the last person in her position *literally* worked himself to *death.* He was 28 yrs old, and so frantic, harried, and busy w/ work, he didn't take care of himself. He got an infection, never went to the doc, kept working, and fucking DIED. Hello. Lesson learned. Busting your ass to no end for some fat,rich fuckhead in a leather chair, or some corrupt federal system ? No way.) Yesterday: replaced most of the light bulbs in the house w/ energy-saving, economical, compact fluorescent light bulbs. Tomorrow: will order eco-friendly bamboo countertop for kitchen. Psyched!

Interesting factoids:

http://www.zillow.com/local/New%20Mexico (state)

http://www.zillow.com/local/New%20Mexico/Bernalillo (county)

Zestimation: Yuppie Central

2007-02-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

According to Zillow.com, the most rockin' real estate site I've seen yet, my house has increased in value by over $7K in the last THIRTY days. (The "zestimated" value is almost a full third more than I paid.) Is that even possible? All I've done, for the most part, is demolition. (Which my contractor realizes is my favorite part of the renovation process. Yesterday, as I was sledging the kitchen cabinets from the wall, he said, "You sure like that sledgehammer, don'tcha, Kate?" Brings out my destructive side...) Are the property values skyrocketing THAT quickly?!? I guess this means the yuppies are moving in - fast. (Proof: on the next block over, there was a kid's stroller parked on the porch, and a hybrid in the driveway. If that's not evidence, I don't know what's more damning.) How soon will it be before the yuppies outnumber the crackheads?! Not that I'm crying about the yuppies. I am one...kinda, sorta...though I'd rather not be. But I'm continually broke, don't have a trust fund, and don't get more than five dollars from my grandma in my birthday card (and those stopped coming years ago).

I'm growing more antsy about seeing at least one room FINISHED. It hasn't happened yet, and although I feel REALLY fortunate to have found an extremely cool contractor/roommate, I'm itching with impatience, especially now that I need to get a loan to finance the rest of the reno. Throughout, he's encouraged me to get the shiniest of bling -- top of the line, go all out, crazy expensive stuff. But the fact remains: this neighborhood is still uber-ghetto, regardless of the yuppie influx. I'm not going to make more than $40K profit if I sell soon and keep spending so much on building materials. And that's a rosy estimate. So, I think I need to be more realistic about my expectations for this house...maybe not get so ambitious; get a plan (stop wavering!) and stick to it. And stop listening to my contractor. Although his help has been invaluable, I'm the one with the history of financial responsibility and savvy. He, on the other hand, is totally broke. That said, I should listen to my gut -- not his supposedly sage recommendations.

Update: I've been aggressive with the sledgehammer, demolishing the kitchen cabinets (found the nastiest roach nests I've EVER seen...they actually SMELLED bad. YUCK.); chipping away the remaining linoleum on the kitchen floor (readying it for saltillo!); tearing the wood panels from the dining room wall, including the stick-on square mirrors (1970's disco fabulous), tearing out the lowered ceiling in the dining room, and patching the stucco in the lv. and dining rooms. My windows are ready for pick-up (don't have the money to pay the other half, BUT windows man, my favorite, says that I don't have to pay for ninety days after pick-up...debating as to whether or not I should pay to have them installed, or do it myself, w/ the contractor). CAN'T WAIT until the kitchen looks decent, and to start GARDENING! It was SEVENTY degrees today, and wickedly beautiful.

Meanwhile, the bills are kicking my butt. The last heating/electric bill was nearly $250, and the latest water bill is over fifty bucks. All of my credit cards are in deep freeze...literally.

Would you like fries with that? Gotta love those Crackheads.

2007-01-21T20:59:00.000-07:00

My neighbors are absolutely, undoubtedly, indubitably on crack. And it’s actually kind of hilarious. I told Lupe today that she looked like a beauty queen after she dyed her hair tomato red, and she pointed to her missing row of teeth. “Yeah,” she said. “A toothless one!” And then she started crying. I held her hand and stroked her ultra-red hair until she stopped sniffling. How could you not be sympathetic to a crying crackhead? Poor woman.

As I was coming home last weekend, I discovered an unpleasant surprise in my driveway: an emaciated crackhead. (Stumbling, with shopping bag, in the sand. I had to pull in really carefully, so as not to mow her over.) The contractor says that this should be the title of my next book: There’s a Crackhead in my Driveway. Has a certain ring to it, I think. Kind of a Babs E. expose, keeping in line with my other projects.

My other favorite crackhead development?: The drive-thru McCracky Meal. All day and all night, horns beep, blaring for crack. And the crackheads get roadside service. The dealer pulls up, curbside, like a McD’s drive thru, good are exchanged…and there you have it -- a McCracky Meal special. Beep, beep. Where’s my crack, bitch?

That said, I had an alarm system installed, which is pretty worthless, except it may deter a break in – along w/ my scary-looking dogs (who, by the way, terrify the crackheads…one of them practically fell off of the sidewalk after Blue started barking ferociously).

The contractor and I have a deal: The house will be in reasonable shape by March 1st, so that I can get a HELOC to pay off my Home Depot debt. The place is a total construction zone at present (sawdust, nails, tools spilled on the floor), but it’s coming together. And we’re finding cool relics of the past – newspaper clippings, photos, and ticket stubs from the 1940’s. Fucking cool!

Livin' la vida buena

2007-01-03T08:58:00.000-07:00

Imagine my glee this morning upon finding the high school parking lot EMPTY. I’d woken up at 6:30, snoozed until 7, then rushed around like a maniac trying to make it to work on time. (Inevitably, I was late. My manana attitude didn’t prevail, since my boss has insisted I get to school by 8am, which is still way later than everybody else, but super-early for me.) It was my first day back at work after a LONG vacation, and this morning proved to me precisely why I must find a way to work for myself: feeling harried and stressed from the moment my feet hit the cold floor; no time for coffee, walking the dogs (we run, like retards, around the block); reading the news. I don’t even swipe on some mascara (make-up in the morning? No way). I’m tired of eating my breakfast out of a Tupperware. Fucking Tupperware.

My gleeful discovery? School was cancelled – and is, possibly, all week. (The janitors, when I asked them if school was closed: "Don't you watch TV, lady? It's been all over the news." Me: "I don't have a TV." Foiled again!) It’s been almost a week since the last snowfall (it’s a beautiful, sun-bright, New Mexico morning), yet the city deemed the roads too dangerous for school to reopen. Outrageous! (And TOTALLY wonderful.) As in kid in coastal MA, school was on during the worst of Nor’ Easters. In Albuquerque, a few flakes and people hole up with hot chocolate and pinon fires. (When I walk the dogs at night, my hair ends up smelling like firewood, which I love.)

I think I’m happier now, as an adult, to discover that school is cancelled than I ever was as a kid. (Not that I liked school. For the most part, I didn’t – despite my dorkiness.) And now I won’t take the extra time off for granted, as I tend to when I have extended vacation time. Today: maybe a snowshoe hike w/ Rex in the Sandias (AWESOME, esp. covered in snow), finally finishing that Mother Jones piece (slacking and obsessing, alternately), maybe getting back to my ms, catch-up emails (I know, I owe you!), and some work on the house.

It’s hard to believe, but today marks a year I’ve lived in New Mexico. It feels like forever that I’ve been here, in a sense…but in a way that feels really good. My NYC life feels really far away, and it’s hard to imagine that I lived in such a different way for so long. It’s funny, too, that I never meant to stay here. For now -- at least, for the next twelve months, I can’t imagine leaving (except to travel, of course). “New Mexican” doesn’t sound quite as illustrious as “New Yorker,” nor does it have the cache. Nevertheless, it’s a pretty sweet life…VIDA BUENA!

‘Til manana,
KT
Addendum:
Another week off!:
"--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Albuquerque Public Schools News Release
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject : Albuquerque Public Schools Will Be Closed Thursday and Friday
Author : Joseph Escobedo
Posted Date : 2007/01/03

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Albuquerque] – Albuquerque Public Schools will be closed Thursday and Friday (Jan. 4 and 5, 2007) because road conditions have not improved and there is still a great amount of snow that must be cleared from school grounds.
“We were hit hard with record amounts of snow fall and have been working since the storm hit to get our schools ready,” said APS Superintendent Dr. Elizabeth Everitt. “Currently we have more than 200 APS maintenance personnel, about a dozen contractors, dozens of parent and community volunteers all working on removing snow at our schools.”
All after-school activities will be canceled until Monday, Jan. 8.
Albuquerque Public School bus contractors told administrators today that the road conditions are not safe for them to be out transporting students to school.
“Our main concern is getting the students to school safely and we hope that these two days will allow time for the snow to clear on the city streets,” added Everitt.
About 38,000 students are transported to school everyday by APS bus contractors.
APS administrative offices will be open as scheduled. Employees can take up to two hours to get into work, if needed, but if any employee feels that it is not safe to drive to work they may take 8 hours of personal or annual leave. Principals, teachers and other school staff do not have to report to work on Thursday and Friday.
“Custodians are being asked to help get schools ready for Monday,” Everitt said. “We thank the community for their support in this unprecedented storm for Albuquerque and the entire state.”
Every child has a right to a quality public education and APS is committed to providing that education. For more information about Albuquerque Public Schools visit www.aps.edu."

Quickie...

2007-01-02T20:20:00.000-07:00

This will be brief, and a digression from the Sledge, but I MUST divulge:

I just got home from yoga, and I'm left not with a sense of solace and wholeness, but with snippets of the hysterical conversation I heard in the women's room.

Why do yoga people have to be so predictable?

So, I'm toweling off my hair and pulling on my jeans, inch by inch over sticky legs, when I overhear two women talking about karma, past lives, and -- I kid you not -- His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. Now, I'm not one to knock any of these things. I don't rule them out (not that I ascribe to any of them, either...but that's my religion: the mystery of it all. My prayer: who knows?), and I still love Shirley MacLaine. But the WAY they were talking...ugh! Totally esoteric and fluffy, like, "Ohhhh, you'll just LOVE it...it's soooo AMAAAAAAAAAAZING, your soul is just like, ohmygod..."

I'm sorry, but super-barf, girls.

My favorite part of the conversation? Afterward, when one of the chicks said, "My name is Marla." Pause here while she steps into her thong (probably made of breathable hemp). "But you can call me Mars." It was like an interplanetary yoga exchange btwn. Mars and her litte yogini suns. I love the yoga, but, man, get real!

Along similar lines, my contractor thinks I'm a hippie, which I find kind of hilarious, considering my black-clad past spent in swank Manhattan martini bars. People can change. Cheers, baby.

Also, because this hippie hates working for the man (and must return to work tomorrow after a LONG vacation), I've been thinking: if all goes well with renovating (and, eventually, selling) this house, why not make a habit of it? I need constant change (otherwise, I'm deadly bored...and v. quickly), love projects, and know that I need to work for myself. Even with a piece-of-cake job, I'm doomed to misery if I'm doing something for which I don't give a damn. (If I sell this house even at a marginal profit, I'll make TWICE my annual salary. How's that for apples?) I'm trying to get the freelancing off the ground (running in the grass, for now, at least), but if I can make some megabucks renovating homes, why not? It might be fun. It's been good so far, however stressful on my bank account (and brain). But, knowing it will pay off (faith!) is exciting. I like the impermanence of it. Maybe I'll live here for a few years...maybe not. I can do whatever I please; name myself Saturn, move to Kentucky, and start singing back-up for a bluegrass band. For now, though, still taking a whack at this place...still sledgin'.

I'll leave you w/ some photos of my trip to the Northern/central Cal coast:
Elephant Seals on the beach
Elephant seal pup
Santa smokin' up in Big Sur

good news

2007-01-01T22:03:00.000-07:00

According to a report by CNN:

Albuquerque Real Estate
Projected price change, 2007: up 5.9%
Rank, Regional (ALL of the west, inc. CA, pac nw, SW...): 1st (yeah, baby)
Median home price: $180K

Installed French doors in my bedroom today...which look totally AWESOME.

Happy New Year to all!
xo
KT

A very ghetto x-mas

2006-12-30T17:44:00.000-07:00

I've been AWOL for a while now, but that doesn't mean I've been slacking on the sledge. Au contraire. In the interim, there've been at least six trips to Home Depot, and six thousand dollars (probably much more) spent on supplies and building materials. I've also acquired a live-in contractor. Maybe it started as a crazy idea, to find a live-in contractor via CraigsList (list of all lists!), but, my, my, it was BRILLIANT. Not only is the guy pretty cool, he has a sweet, scary-looking dog (Rex's latest gay lover). He's pretty easy to live with, not a sketchball, and, most importantly, he knows what he's doing. I've never been a woman to swoon over guys with powertools, but now I'm enlightened. Not that I'm swooning. (Sorry kids, not at all.) I just see the value in having someone on-hand to fix things you can't easily figure out. (I've had my bed on milk crates for the last six months b/c the frame was broken...and this dude fixed it in five minutes! What's so bad about that?)

I didn't realize how hard it is to do something as seemingly simple as selecting a faucet or lighting fixture until I found myself staring at them. THOUSANDS of them! The contractor, who has seen and remodeled hundreds of re-sells, is like a re-do guru. Forget Martha Stewart and those TLC people. I've realized, over the course of making these plans and buying this stuff, that if I can't even pick out a fixture (it's like staring at a menu with too many choices), there's no way I could've done this remodel myself. (As ever, in over my head...then, by magic, in the clear.) I feel really fortunate. And I'm psyched to see it come to fruition!

The master plan:
Get the place ready for a re-appraisal so that I can get a home equity loan (HELOC) (right now, there's so little equity, I'd be a fool to apply). This includes re-doing:
Kitchen, living and dining rooms, and two of the bedrooms. Also, install the windows, for which I paid cold, hard cash. (Ouch.)
With the HELOC, I can pay off the supplies I've charged thus far AND remodel the back bedroom, bathroom, and add ANOTHER bathroom, which will be exculsive to the back bedroom (a room to rent, w/ private entrance from garden). By the summer, I should have the front and back lawns xeriscaped. Vision: French doors from kitchen lead to back garden patio (fenced, private...many mornings of coffee and the NYT w/ dogs at my feet...heavenly), which will be very GREEN and include a sauna...and maybe a hot tub, too, if I feel really extravagant. I plan on living in the place for at least a few years before I can re-sell, so I want it to be NICE (and to include those features that rich people can't resist).

Bought poplar to trim ALL rooms and add lighted crown moulding to cieling in living (and maybe dining) room.

In the living room: built-in bookshelves on either side of the chimney (will install wood stove), refinish wood floor, bought new front door and door to hide furnace, knock out part of wall btw. liv/din. rms (add ballustrade)= gorgeous.

In kitchen: Laundry room (pretty big) becomes a part of the kitchen; door in laundry room disappears, thus making French doors (from kitch to back patio) main back entry. Hide laundry stuff w/ a closet; add pantry, new cabinets, new counters/countertops (custom butcher block mixed w/ sandy-colored slate); saltillo tile on the floor (also in dining); breakfast nook btw. dining and kitchen (requires removing a wall).

Serious undertakings! But I'm psyched. Now that we have all of the materials, it's really going to start coming together. I spent an entire day hunched over the kitchen floor, chipping away at the layers of ancient linoleum, all the way down to the concrete. It's still not entirely done, but it's close! It's going to be slow, I realize, but, well worth it, I think. Like anything else, I've got to suffer a little before I can eat my cake. (Speaking of which, I'm afraid I'm getting scurvy from eating so many xmas goodies.)

It's been nearly a year now that I've lived in NM (I drove out after Xmas last year, and arrived Jan. 3), and though I never meant to stay, it feels exactly right that I did. I can't imagine going back to NYC...not now, anyway. I couldn't take the hustle-bustle, not any more! (I don't know if I could've withstood another year...I'd be bald from too much stress, fat from all the drinking, and terminally insomniac.)

It's SO flippin' BEAUTIFUL here. We're in the midst of a major snow storm, and the entire city is blanketed in this pristine white crust. Coupled with that electric sunset? Outrageous. It never tires. Even the ghetto looks stunning, covered in snow. This was Rex's first encounter with the stuff, and he went nuts. We went for a run in the snow today, and he went loping through the woods, snarfing up the snow like a coke fiend. Totally adorable. At the park, he chased after kids on sleds, bounding in front of them as they torpedoed down the hill, then issuing drooly kisses as the kids lay face-up in the snow. Most succumbed in half-terror, half-glee. Who could resist?

The Littlest (Living) Christmas Tree.

2006-12-13T18:45:00.000-07:00

I shouldn't be blogging (WORK up the WAZOO!), but I can't resist. Check out the latest developments, in photo form (inc. my littlest Christmas tree. Cute! And, even better, it's alive.) Dog pics because I can't resist. You should also know that I spent $1400 at Home Depot last night. I can't think of anything I own that's worth that much money. I had to grip the register counter when the cashier told me the total. But, I'm going to have a GORGEOUS bathroom in just a few days! I bought a totally classy porcelain sink (Kohler!) and other fineries, inc. matching fixtures (faucets, showerheads, etc.). To save money, I'm salvaging the bathtub w/ this incredible refinishing spray, and am laying saltillo tile in the bathroom. (I LOVE saltillo tile...more in the kitchen, too.) I bought a wet tile saw, too, which is my favorite tool in the universe. More ltr!

Dropping the Bomb (on-board)

2006-12-06T11:44:00.001-07:00

I’ve been listening to All Things Considered every morning, like I used to – before I read that listening to a morning newscast puts you in a sour mood for the rest of the day (whereas listening to music makes you happy.) Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling like crap? I guess I’d rather hear about the civilian death toll in Iraq and get angry about it than listen to the inane morning radio hosts discuss dirty x-mas gifts. Worse is the holiday music. I can’t venture out to any public venue in this wretchedly chipper season without hearing Nat King Cole belt out White Christmas, and I can’t hear a Christmas song without bursting into tears. (I actually cried over a head of lettuce while grocery shopping. Jingle Bells was blaring over the loud-speaker.) I wish I weren’t such a sorrowful scrooge.

Anyway, my intended point: I heard something SO FUNNY, SO ABSURD on the news this morning, I can’t resist sharing it. It proves NPR has a sense of humor. Reportedly, a woman on a flight to Nashville (?) lit a match on-board the plane. According to the NPR report, the FBI concluded that the woman lit the match b/c she had GAS and was trying to conceal the odor.

That’s fucking hilarious. And retarded. Who needs pop music in the morning when you can hear shit like that on the radio?! Made my day.

News of the “Bombplex” the feds are planning to build in NM sort of soured my cheer. Ironic how people flock to NM for spiritual renewal, when the gov’t. views it as a repository for nuclear waste and weaponry. (Fact: NM is home to the only site in the nation where nuclear waste is deliberately --and legally -- dumped...just miles from a world-famous spa.)

In other ironic news, I also hear that New York City is trying to pass an ordinance which would ban all food svc. establishments from using trans-fats. Who’s behind this? A coalition of anorexic supermodels? NYC is not SoCal. NYC is skinny, yes, and beautiful. Glamorous. But NYC is not healthy. NYC is about indulgence and excess and hedonism. I’ve never bought a donut from one of those street vendors, but if ever I do, I want it fried in the kind of oil that’s going to kill me. That’s just the NYC way.

Shaking my Money-Maker...in the Poor House

2006-12-03T19:40:00.000-07:00

The house sometimes feels like an unbearable burden. I'm not as daunted by the work that needs to happen as I am by the cost of it. I'm one of the few people I know who's both debt-free and independent of their 'rents, and the prospect of going into debt is making me panic. I can afford the mortgage, but that plus my living costs, plus renovations is way beyond my capability. So, it looks like I'm destined for a loan of some sort, at least eventually. I can only hope that the house will be a money-maker (shake it), not a money pit. After all, that's the sole reason I bought it: to make some loot. I try to console myself w/ the fact that millions of other people take out loans to fix up their homes and aren't agonized by it. But are those the millions of people who buy diamonds and convertibles with borrowed money? I'm a simple girl. I like things to be simple. Not fancy. Not complicated. Simple. I like having one credit card (now I have more -- and they're all in the freezer), one bank account (I have four), and a budget that doesn't stretch beyond rent, food, and the occasional haircut. When did I get so fucking high maintenance?!

Here's what I figure: charge essential stuff to the new Home Depot cred card (uh, yeah. I have a HD credit card. Hard-core.), which is interest-free/no payments for six to twelve mos. By then, the place will be fixed up enough to rent out a bedroom, maybe two (rental income, also part of Plan A), and I can get a home equity loan (fixed rate!) for the amount I owe. Sounds reasonable, but I'm still sick over all of that money. But, no pain, no gain...right? Bring on the burn!

I've found a contractor who's willing to buy into my barter agreement (free rent in exchange for contracting svcs.). He and his dog are moving in this week. I'm not thrilled to have a roommate, but I am psyched to really get serious about the renovation (and for Rex to have a dog buddy w/o my adopting another). I chose this dude as opposed to the others b/c he doesn't seem crazy or creepy (most were automatically eliminated on some grounds, i.e. the Vietnam vet who told me he hoped to get "raped by an Indian lady" on his drive through NM...I don't know what's worse, the rape or the fact that he said "Indian lady"). The guy also sees what I see in the place: serious potential. He agreed that most of the stuff that needs to be done is simple (for him) and cosmetic -- nothing major, as I suspected. Reassuring. An interesting little deal that we've waged...I hope it works out.

This wknd was mostly a bust. I've been feeling anxious and cranky, and especially lethargic. Lazy and leaden-limbed. I figured that if the contractor guy was moving in, he could take care of the stuff that needed to be done, and I could rest. All I did was wash the bedroom walls to prep them for paint. This was my hot Friday night, on which I turned down a date w/ the geophysics professor in favor of spackling the walls. I'm convinced the spackling paste is more dynamic, albeit a little disappointing over dinner. I did, however, make friends w/ a neighbor who seems like a v. cool chick. She's a teacher, like me, and (also like me) very interested in the institutionalized racism in the schools. We talked for almost an hour over her picket fence, while Rex made gay love to her dog, Mr. Fluffy. (What's more gay than a guy dog named "Fluffy?") Pretty psyched to have met a neighbor who doesn't have an NRA sticker slapped onto the bumper of their SUV.

Ahhh...a sigh of relief and a renewed sense of false security

2006-11-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a trip to dreary, dark New England to make me yearn for NM -- even if I do live in a ghetto shack. Good news: My house didn't get broken into, and I still see the charm and potential in it, beyond the wood paneling and 1970's decor. There's enough fake wood in this house to build a village. For midgets. (Rather, there was b/f I sledged most of it outta here.) But, I confess: the huge, gold-swirled, stick-on-panel mirror on the dining room (soon to be library) wall is kinda growing on me. (Narcissism, obviously.)

My joy at returning home was buzkilled by the newly broken furnace. And did I mention it snowed? Yeah, it's f'ing cold here. Eyeball-freezing cold. I was so chilled I couldn't sleep, even with Pip nestled in my armpit. I fixed the furnace this morning (and, by some miracle, managed not to blow myself up), and again three more times...just today. The pilot keeps going out on its own, even after I shelled out $200 big ones last wk. to fix it. Go figure.

The cold killed my plants, too, but I'm trying for some indoor resuscitation. I'm just glad they weren't lifted, along w/ my Mexican string lights. I guess I took precautions for naught, out of paranoia. Feel like kind of a fool.

Also: Eastern people (beloveds aside, of course) are bitches! Rudeness abounds! I didn't notice it when I lived there, but, my god, there's truth in that stereotype. New Mexico is such a sanctuary of false security. There are nuclear weapons stored in the Sandia Mtns and surrounding areas, but people are friendly and generous (SO generous!) and kind. It feels like an innocent place, despite the dereliction.

In Mr. J's A.S.S. (YouthBuild: Alibi)

2006-11-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

http://www.alibi.com/index.php?story=17143&scn=news

I entertained inviting the kids over to the house to do some work for me, but thought that would be crossing the line of professionalism...

Hot Stuff: Puppies, Pahkin' the Caaah, and Self-induced Poverty

2006-11-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

Preparing to rejoin my Bostonian brethren for canned cranberry sauce (sliced, of course), fixin's, and a Pat's game. Not that I'll watch it intently or know what's going on. Anyhow, I'm kind of psyched to ride the T (Wonderland! Aquarium! Copley Squa-ah!). Despite the smack I talk about Beantown, I do sometimes get nostalgic. (But it's no New York.) As a semi-related digression, I'm going to blow off some holiday steam: why must all of my colleagues and just about everyone who comes over my house make comments about my "weird" eating habits? If I were eating a cheese-smothered steak grinder and sucking down a cherry-flavored Slurpee, no one would blink. But because it's a flippin' salad, or a tomato, or the berry smoothies I bring for lunch, I'm a *freak.* They get upset when I refuse to eat the courtesy nosh (BEEF! DONUTS! Watery coffee!) that's laid out in the lounge. Blech. I don't judge them when they eat stale, icing-smothered danish. Why am I so weird?

I did get to give out iPods to some smarty-pants kids today, though, which was pretty cool. And it was on tv!

Back to business: Lots of home-related developments today. Fixed the furnace for $200 (needed new transformer), so now I have heat! I was kind of getting used to freezing my tuckus off and toughening up (ready for some winter camping! cowabunga!), but oh, well. The electrician never showed, but I did have a dude from PNM check for gas leaks. My bill, for only six days of svc, was exorbitant (probably bc the furnace was busted, but still burning gas). Fortunately, there's no leak. B/c if there were, I probably couldn't afford to fix it. I met with Grace, the security bar lady, on my lunch break. She's been in business for forty years, and has probably been smoking for much longer. She sounds like a lawnmower riding roughshod. But I like her. Of her enormous selection, I actually found some iron bars that I found aesthetically pleasing -- and not prison-like. They were kind of artsy-fartsy cool, but not overwhelming. The cost? Upwards of THREE GRAND! (Remember, the windows are going to be more than $3K, too, so that's nearly $7K, right up-front, right now.) She doesn't take credit cards, which is good and bad, nor does she have a payment plan. It's no secret: I don't have three thousand big ones to shell out for security bars. Nor do I want to take out a loan. Not right now. I've decided to deal in cash until I absolutely can't. I've got a few years, and I don't want to go into debt. I'm only invested in this house for as long as it takes me to fix it up and sell for a profit. Then, surely, the wanderlust will pull me somewhere else (probably further west, is my guess). So why get into lots of debt? I can stand to take it slow, can take the dust and the ugliness for as long as I can manage. I'm doin' it the old-fashioned way -- which is how I like to do just about everything. Besides, I don't even think I *own* $3K in valuables. My foremost concern is safety... a problem possibly solved by a new, mean n' nasty, cuddly pup.

I was looking online at the shelter dogs for adoption today, and man, am I a sucker. I even called to be sure they wouldn't put them down over Thanksgiving (they don't make a habit of euthanizing, they said, but I've heard conflicting information from other sources). I'm not enchanted by the idea of having another thing to take care of, but don't find $3K of security iron on my doors and windows appealing, either. Another dog is just more love, right? Anyhow, I'll wait to make a decision on this. Don't want to be rash! In the meantime, just look at what I'm up against. How can you say no?:

http://www.petharbor.com/results.asp?bgcolor=FFFFFF&text=%20003399&link=0000FF&alink=FF9900&vlink=663399&col_hdr_bg=99CC99&col_hdr_fg=003399&SBG=99CC99&rows=10&imght=120&imgres=thumb&view=sysadm.v_animal_short&forntface=arial&start=4&zip=87108&miles=200&shelterlist='ALBQ','ALBQ1'&PAGE=1&WHERE=type_DOG,size_l&searchtype=ADOPT

Early-Onset Senility

2006-11-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

Not much to report today, except that I often feel bleepin' crazy for taking this on. I moved away from the ghetto...only to wind up in another. And there's so much work ahead! I resent the time it takes from things like working on my ms, or retreating to the Jemez for the weekend. It's been so gorgeous here, and I haven't been able to get away (I'm missing the golden leaves and their crunch)! BUT, the house around the corner (old, rehabbed) is selling for $400K. The place across the street (presently rehabbing) is going for OVER $400K. And the little brick place w/ the cutie-pie porch, just down the block, is on the market for $350K. So, if I do it right, I think I stand to make some sweet bank. Which is why I signed. It's just going to take a lot of mooh-lah up front.

I called the bank today to investigate rates for a home equity loan. Scary: variable rates! high interest! Borrow more than you need, and you've STILL got to pay it off, w/ interest. (And they explain all of this in a very soothing voice, the same one you'd use to speak to a baby or a senile geezer, so as not to alarm.) I'm not even comfortable with carrying credit card debt. Even the mortgage gives me jitters. But home equity? Eeek! Maybe I should just pay cash. ...in which case the place would be finished... maybe by the time I'm toothless.

The windows are going to cost upwards of $3K, and security bars at least $1.5K. And these are two things I need to do NOW. I've got to get the bars, even though I think they're sinfully ugly. I hate taking all of my valuable junk w/ me everywhere I go, and worrying that I'll come home to a ransacked house. I especially worry about the dogs' safety, even though they're supposed to be protecting me. I don't want to become a paranoid wetta.

I love the windows guy. He's from Idaho, and totally sweet. He's got my back, b/c he knows I've got a lot of work ahead, little money w/ which to do it, and that I'm new here. He says I "struck a chord" in him and "stuck in his mind" -- in a completely non-gross, non-threatening way, of course. He's coming over on Weds. to help me estimate the full cost of the reno. and draw up a budget -- free of charge. He's also a realtor and a contractor, so he knows what's happenin'. The windows guy is down. (And, probably, thinks I'm a little nuts. Which, maybe, I am.)

Will maybe tackle the bathroom next. Showering strictly at yoga, b/c the thought of stepping into that tub w/o protection is almost as sickening as using the old toilet. Uck! It's worse than the skankiest foreign hostel -- I swear.

Pics: lath-and-plaster, lv. rm

2006-11-19T21:26:00.000-07:00

More Photos: Funky Gunk

2006-11-19T21:23:00.000-07:00

Nasty kitchen, funky wiring (in cabinet), and the gunk that fell from the ceiling.

Photos of the Nasty Ceiling

2006-11-19T21:20:00.000-07:00

Asbestos? Let's hope not.

The Wetta Wants it Done

2006-11-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

My grand visions of the master bedroom didn't come to fruition. Not just yet. Looks like I'll be sleeping on the couch for at least another week. In ripping out the old ceiling and sanding the walls, I discovered that the walls are made of different materials. Most are old-school lath-and-plaster (much of which is crumbling...lots of patch work to do), but one wall, by the closet, was drywall. The drywall reached only to the old ceiling, so the wall looked markedly different where the drywall met the plaster. I decided to get in a little over my head and tear the whole wall out. I can half-ass this renovation or I can go full-throttle. I'm revved. It's all or nothing, baby. What's so tough about drywall, anyhow? I've done it before. And, I figure, if beer-guzzling knuckleheads do this for a living, why can't I learn?

Re: bedroom colors - I think A's right. A bright red bedroom might conjure nightmares, and lord knows I have enough trouble sleeping. Perhaps a soft pastel, or natural/neutral? Something slightly girly?

People ask me what I think about when I wield my sledgehammer. I don't have very much to be angry about, so I sledge away the big, bad untouchables -- like Rummy and Bush and their axis of evil cohorts. I sledge Bush-lovers and warmongers and Bill O'Reilly (extra hard swing for him). Jerry Falwell gets it good, too (AW, remember when we were on his show, defending the gay Teletubby?). I take a few shots at Heather Wilson, who sobbed over the indecency of Janet Jackson's exposed nipple, but sees no wrong in sending teens to war, and then move on to sucker-punch the man I caught kicking his dog. Maybe I should don a spandex suit and a cape, work on my superpowers, and start crusading.

I've been thinking about getting another dog. Which is INSANE. Rex is so docile, I'm afraid he'd go belly-up if a burglar barged through the door. I've never seen him bear his teeth -- not once. And he needs a pal. Pip isn't any fun. He's old and grouchy, and growls whenever big dog tries to play.

Roger said he'd have the linoleum ripped up by today. Not so. He didn't even help Freddie w/ the labor (although Freddie took his sweet time and plenty of smoke breaks). I don't want to come off as a bitchy wetta, but I paid him -- and I want it done. He first said he'd finish it a week ago. I told him that if this keeps up, our little deal -wink, wink - is off.

Other notables: Watched my other neighbors, two Mexican guys, nearly kick Rick's drug-addicted ass in their driveway. Not sure of the conflict, but it was rough. Labor: Ripped out wall in bedroom, tore down ceiling in living room (showered with dust, looked like a coal miner by day's end), pried wooden beams from walls (remnants of wood panels), and swept endless piles of dust and debris. Next: Drywall, the furnace, and the retired electrician (who pays a visit on Tuesday...all of the wiring is out of code).

Week one triumph: I think I've finally eliminated the cig stench, with all of my candle-burning, coffee brewing, and fresh air.

Photos (more in next post):

1. Archway, from lv. rm. to one of the bedrooms/bath.

2. Blue light, porch.

3. Bedroom closet (needs drywall).

4. Light fixture in bedroom, dangling from ceiling.

5. Ceiling in lv. rm., after ripping off lowered tiles.

Forays into the Forbidden...and The Frontier (or: Burritos and Break-ins)

2006-11-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

I was thoroughly lazy today, namely b/c I had a glass of wine on an empty stomach before bed last night, which gave me a royal headache this morning. (What happened to the days when I had an Irish, iron-strong gut?) This one foray into the forbidden set off a landslide of naughtiness. I soothed my aching head with a disgustingly delicious breakfast burrito from Frontier, the ultimate in NM guilty pleasures (green chili, cheese, scrambled eggs, AND hash browns, baby!) and a cup of coffee from the cutesy shop down the street. Rex and I have become regulars since running out of beans a few days ago. The woman who owns the place is always fawning over the dog and feeding him treats. I'm tempted to beg for a cupcake. I know some pretty good tricks, myself.

Roger and Freddie (next-door neighbors) came over this afternoon to finish scraping the layers of linoleum from the kitchen floor. I tore up the top layer, but there's some ancient, yellow stuff glued down to the cement that just won't come up. So, when Roger offered his assistance (for cash, of course), we shook hands and made a deal. Freddie was telling me that he gets harassed by the cops b/c he looks young. He does. He's 31. I thought he was 19. The cops, he said, pulled him over as he was riding his bike home from the store -- sirens blaring! And they pulled a fucking WEAPON on him! Crazy!

"They won't bother you, though," he said.

It's b/c I'm a wetta, isn't it, I said.

"Yup."

Freddie says I'm the only white chick in the neighborhood. It's true, at least for a few blocks. But I like it. It was the same way in Brooklyn, but there wasn't as much poverty. I didn't realize until I moved in how absolutely impoverished my neighbors are. Roger just offered me food stamps at a discount. There's a black market food stamp ring I wan't privy to, but it exists. Breaks my heart. How to tell him I don't need them w/o offending, or seeming righteous?

And that guy, Rick? Lupe, Roger's wife (former truck driver! so cool!), warned me that Rick is bad news. Not only is he pushy, he just got out of prison -- for the umpteenth time. I suspected he was on drugs, and, sure 'nough, it's true. Lupe says he overdosed and nearly died on his front lawn not too long ago, needle sticking from his arm.

There are some SERIOUS DROGAS en esta barrio. Muchas drogas, and just down the street from an elementary school. All night, cars beep their horns and dim their headlights, signaling for a deal. It's fucking everywhere. Totally pervasive, totally obvious, yet the cops are more concerned w/ people speeding down Central. Not that I want the cops around here. I don't. I just don't understand the blatant deals and the city's blindness. Corruption, no doubt the culprit.

Yoga was like a Floridian torture chamber today, without the rednecks and the gators. But it felt really good, especially after sledgehammering out the ceiling and wrecking my back w/ all of this manual labor.

The only work I did today was minimal: I climbed up on the roof and yanked down all of the hideous cable wires that were falling across the front of the house. I don't have a TV, so what's the sense?

Lupe warned me that my house is going to get broken into. I know it will, especially b/c everyone here thinks I'm little miss moneybags.

"Once they break in, they'll realize I don't have squat."

Lupe laughed. "Sure looks that way, honey."

Christmas and a Cubic Zirconia

2006-11-17T17:46:00.000-07:00

My neighbors think they can make some bucks off of the wetta. They see that I'm doing some heavy-duty renovation, and the dollar signs blind them to the fact that that I have no money. Hello. I work for the public schools. I'm too young to have worked up a decent savings, I don't have a trust fund. And I'm a little bit boho, to boot. I'm self-sufficient, always, but I am poor!

One guy, Rick, who lives around the corner, approached me this afternoon as I was taking the dogs out for a stroll. He practically begged me to hire him, said he's got three kids and another on the way (eventually met his very pregnant wife, who stumbled over in her stocking feet), said that Christmas is coming up. (I hate Christmas. So many reasons. Bah-humbug.) He mentioned karma, and tried to guilt me into hiring him. He asked me if I was married. "Well, that's money right there!," he said, when I told him I wasn't. WHAT?!? I must look like a fucking money tree. An unmarried money tree. If one more person in this grand state asks me if I'm married, I'm going to start wearing a cheap-o cubic zirconia on my finger to fend off any unwanted inquiries. I'm sick of it. For the last time, NO, I'm NOT married, and don't intend to be any time soon. Not nearly! I'm only twenty-four! My biological clock has hardly ticked! (Later addendum: Just received the official deed to my property, which states, precisely, "Katherine [full name], an unmarried woman." In fact, it says it a few times. WTF? And it's written in bold. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, considering that single women weren't allowed to hold a credit card until, like, the late 70's or something. Still creepy, though, no? I wonder if a deed must state whether or not a dude is unmarried. If so, it would probably change the terms...something more like, "unburdened bachelor," or "swinger, sans ball-and-chain.")

Two little girls came over today, just before Rick, to meet the dogs. One of them told me that her mom is 24, and that her birthday is on Halloween -- two days b/f my own. The kid was SEVEN years old. This is the NORM here, baby makin' while you're still wearing braces. I don't get it. But all of these marriage inquiries are really pissing me off, like I'm supposed to have some muscle-y due helping me out w/ the heavy labor. I've always done everything myself without complaint, and I don't intend on that changing.

It's hard for me to pity Rick, as much as he tried to convince me I should. The fact is: yes, socioeconomically, he hasn't had nearly the advantages I've had. It's a different situation, I realize this. YET, there are SERVICES! He and his wife didn't have to have four friggin' kids! That was their choice. Not mine. I don't have money to hand out. And I don't want that reputation. I did, however, think of offering Rick and his family xmas dinner. That I'd do. By then, I hope, the house will be somewhat straightened-out. I'm not into bogus, unsentimental, meaningless gifts, or caroling or lawn ornaments or flourescent xmas lights stapled to the gutter. More than the glitz, I loathe the religious fervor. I am, however, an advocate of good food and good company -- which I think gets lost in all of the other hoopla. So, maybe I'll have Rick and his family over for xmas dinner, and buy some gifts for his girls (even though I hate all of that commercial xmas shit...ugh, I shudder!).

My other neighbor (next door), Roger, says that the ceiling tiles I've been pulling out may be ridden with asbestos. EXCELLENT. PSYCHE. I've been wearing my mask and goggles, but, no doubt, I've been exposed -- if they are, in fact, contaminated. I read the asbestos report b/f I bought the place, and it looked clean, but I should review. What happens, anyway, if you're exposed? Will I suffer brain damage or grow another toe? Turn green? Scary stuff, surely.

Roger is supposed to come over tomorrow and scrape up the rest of the linoleum in the kitchen. I scraped the first layer, but there's still one stuck on. A pain in the patuckus to rip up. Now I know what he meant by, "I'll work w/ you, if you work w/ me." Wink, wink, wetta.

I'm realizing that my grand visions are going to be far more difficult to accomplish than I anticipated. In my (future) bedroom, alone, there's so much to do b/f I can even slap paint on the walls. Much of the electrical wiring here is out of code, in that it's not fed through the walls, but outside of the walls. It's illegal AND unsightly. I think I can sledgehammer through the plaster and lathe and sling it up through to the attic. Lots of work ahead. Oh, to sleep in a real bed, in a real bedroom! Thinking of red and off-white, and an office in the walk-in closet...?

Two More Feet (and Freezing)!

2006-11-17T10:31:00.001-07:00

I awoke this morning to Rex licking my toes. He was crying, because there's not enough room on the couch for his chunky dog butt. It was still dark, at 5 a.m., but I got up and got to work, chiseling that horrible tack-board (the stuff they hammered to the wood floors -- and ALL of the floors -- to keep the nasty carpet down...sacrilege -- on the wood floors! oh!) from my future bedroom, and, finally, hammering into the ceiling.

I struck gold. Proverbial, household gold, that is.

One of the investors I consulted b/f buying the place said that the previous owners had likely lowered the ceiling, which makes the house feel cozy, but kind of cramped (at least, to those who haven't lived in a tiny apartment for all of their adult lives). Two contractors looked at the place and said the ceiling tiles would just peel off -- it'd be easy, they said. In sum, the ceiling looks like shit. The prev. owners covered up the real ceiling (until this morning, an unseen mystery) with these tacky, cardboard (?) tiles. They'd been painted white, who knows how many years ago, and were beginning to slope and dip and warp. They look old and rotted. I'd started busting into the ceiling a few days ago, but was discouraged to find that the tile just peeled apart, flaking into pieces of crappy cardboard. I presumed they were glued to the ceiling (the prev. owners liked to GLUE shit everywhere, like the frikkin' wood panels on the walls, for example), and that it was going to be a mega-bitch to take them off, b/c they weren't coming w/ any ease.

This morning, I climbed my newly purchased ladder and took a whack at 'em. More peeling. More cardboard. Then, GLORY! An ENTIRE PIECE of tile peeled away to reveal TWO more FEET of space -- and a gorgeous, old, original hardwood ceiling (that had been painted, of course)! I'm psyched! By the end of it, I had a ring of black dust around my mouth (had to wear mask and goggles) and sawdust in my ears. It's going to be a bear to remove all of the ceiling tiles, the support beams, and the low molding. I can handle it, though. What I'm more concerned about is the electrical stuff and heating duct that are now exposed. I'd rather not get electrocuted...not the best way to go.

There's no risk of my cooking to death via the heater, though, considering the furnace is probably ka-put. All I know is that there's nothing coming out of it, it's not making any noise, and replacing the thermostat (which I did yesterday...correctly?) didn't make diddly-squat of a difference. Sister Sledge has been freezing her flat, white girl booty off, with only the weak heat of a space heater to warm by.

I think I have to pay some dude w/ experience to take a look at it. Having grown up in a household where my father kept the heat at 59 degrees F throughout the freezing New England winter, I'm hell-bent on keeping warm. I'm notorious for wearing my heavy jacket at work. And, if it's cold enough, my hat and scarf. I hate being cold! Worse, I hate being cold in my own house.

This weekend: finish whacking out the ceiling in my bedroom, figure out what to do w/ electrical and heating hanging from the ceiling, fix furnace (pray I don't have to buy a new one), prime and paint (off-white and red?) bedroom; take a sledgehammer to the sealed-up chimney in the living room -- and maybe buy me a pot-bellied wood stove (or pellet stove, the new vogue) to keep cozy.

Photos to come.

2006-11-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

Welcome, Wetta

2006-11-16T20:27:00.000-07:00

A "wetta" is a white girl. Specifically, a white girl with pelo rubia. A blondie. Like me.

I met another neighbor this evening, as I was walking the dogs at dusk. Stuart was a little drunk, but very kind. He didn't mind when Rex whizzed on his flowers, and knew that Pip is named after the Dickens character in Great Expectations. (What's wrong with a beer after work, anyhow?) Stuart is old, but not so ancient that he's out of it. He's missing three teeth, and one in the very front of his mouth wriggles while he talks. It's kind of endearing. He also swore that Pip has more brains than Donald Rumsfeld, which made me like Stuart immediately.

Stuart is a neighborhood sage. He's been here for at least thirty years, and has seen enough gun-slinging shake-downs, especially w/ the local cops, to put my experience in Brooklyn to shame. Describing the neighborhood, he said, "The white people don't bother us here. It's nice."

"Stuart," I said. "I AM a white person. I'm a wetta." I held a up a fistful of blonde hair. But I don't like the cops or the government, and I have a big, scary-looking dog. He said I'd be okay.

We bid farewell to Stuart and mosied down the block, where I found two young, liberal-looking white guys in tortoise-shell glasses moving their junk into a run-down adobe, just around the corner from my place. Is it a wetta invasion?

My colleagues think I'm INSANE for living in this neighborhood. They don't understand -- I'd rather live here ANY DAY than in the Northeast Whites, or in one of those god-awful McMansions on the West Side. Blech! I'll take a shit shack with character and potential over a cheaply crafted modular that looks identical to all of the other homes on the block -- any day!

I am a bit overwhelmed, though, by all of the work this place needs. AND, by all of the money it's going to take to get it into shape. I'll definitely rent out a bedroom, but I can't do that until it's well in shape -- and that's going to take A LOT, esp. time, money, and elbow grease. I think I can finish my bedroom this weekend, but I'm taking a break for tonight. I'm EXHAUSTED. Haven't been this tired since I lived in NYC. Went to yoga tonight for the first time in four or five days. It didn't energize me the way it usually does, probably because I'm so physically and mentally wrecked. I need time to recover! Must try to remember that fretting gets me nowhere. I've just got to take it one room at a time. ONE ROOM AT A TIME!

All work, little play...

2006-11-16T10:14:00.000-07:00

Having three jobs is taking its toll...I have droopy, black bags under my eyes, yet I can't sleep. I'm too jazzed. I spring off the couch after a restless night ready to wield my hammer. Photo: me in action at job one...in someone else's office (I'm school administration, baby). (Job two: freelancer. Job three: construction worker.)

Mr. Roger's Ghetto

2006-11-16T09:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not wearing wool cardigans or leather loafers, but my neighborhood, however notorious, is straight out of Mr. Roger's -- with some rated R elements (frequent drug deals, toothless neighbors, homeless people, and meth addicts stumbling though the streets).

What New Mexicans lack in intellect, they make up for in kindness. In terms of its people, it's the polar opposite of NYC. In NYC, there are lots of bitchy, busy, self-involved smart people. In New Mexico, most of the folks I encounter aren't headed to Harvard, but they're so FRIKKIN' NICE!

Cases-in-point:

*Homeless people say hello -- w/o asking for change

*My REALTOR and her husband, who I've never met, helped me move in. So did my former colleague, Cathy, and her husband. In NYC, I was always reticent to ask anyone for any kind of help, b/c most everybody -- including me -- was always too busy to give it. Not that I don't love NYC and the people who live there. I do. But 'burque - and NM, in general - is less self-involved, less pretentious, less harried than most other cities. Albuquerque has a gritty underbelly that I admire. It's still transforming, still kind of nasty and quirky, still down-to-earth and totally charming.

I love when I wake up and the sun and the moon, both, are still up in the sky. So cool. Even in the ghetto, it's fucking gorgeous.

I'm in love with my electric sander. I used it last night, for the first time, and sanded the walls to my (future) bedroom (filthy, blue, and stucco -- yuck!) while wearing a cashmere cardigan and a dust mask. Sledgehammer chic.

My CraigsList Ad: Got the Skillz to Pay the Bills?!?

2006-11-15T19:29:00.000-07:00

https://post.craigslist.org/manage/234323598/8v4hi

See photos for what you're up against, suckah...

Believe it or not, I've had some bites!

**Ch-ch-check it out:

Rent: Zero dollars, in exchange for your handy man or woman skills
Where: Downtown, 3 br fixer-upper
Who: Young liberal and her two dogs; one big, one small.
When: move-in any time
The low-down: I just bought a 3br home in seriously rough condition. Most of the issues are cosmetic, but they're throughout the house. It needs a total renovation. I've started in on it, but there's some stuff that's over my head -- for example, installing a new shower, toilet, etc. Ideally, I'm looking for someone who's willing to offer their handy services (i.e. someone who CAN install a new shower -- and has experience doing so) in exchange for free rent (on a month-to-month basis). All the renter would be responsible for would be half of the utilities. Again, the house is in ROUGH shape -- but, it's habitable. So, if you're someone who can't stand a little cracked plaster, this ain't for you.

You: No druggin' or stumble-bumble, daily drinkin'. Dog loving, handy (experienced), helpful, responsible and respectful roommate. Can pay half of utilities on time. Your pets are welcome (upon approval). References required.

If interested, pls. e-mail w/ a brief description of yourself, your experience (inc. speciality, if applicable), and your pet(s) (if applicable).

Thanks!

Edith Blvd SE at Pacific google map yahoo map

yes -- cats are OK - purrr

yes -- dogs are OK - wooof

this is in or around Downtown

no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

**SOON TO COME: PHOTOS OF THE HOOD: GENTRIFICATION GALORE IN THE GHETTO

Cookies...and Milk! (Or: I meet the neighbors)

2006-11-15T19:11:00.000-07:00

First, the photos in the previous post:

1. Close-up: exterior of house
2: The living room (entry) BEFORE I touched it. Makes you sick, right? Can't you just SMELL the cigs?
3: Diagonally across the street from my house: the old Edith St. Laundry/grocery, which an investor is fixing up (a loft, I think) and selling for BIG BUCKS! I wanted to buy it, but couldn't afford it.
4: Living (entry) room AFTER I ripped the carpet from the (gorgeous hardwood!) floors and paneling from the walls. Lots of drywall to finish...
5: View of ext. from street corner

Now...about the neighbors:

A homeless guy walked into my house yesterday. I'd left the door open, because I was hauling out the debris I'd pried from the walls with my chisel and hammer, wood paneling painted orange and brown by the previous owners.

I nearly gouged him with a splintered 2 x 4 on my way toward the door.

I looked him in the eyes. His head nearly skimmed the cieling. He was at least six feet tall, and toothpick skinny.

"Hello," I said.

"Hi. You know where Roger is?"

Roger is my next-door neighbor. I cocked my thumb toward Roger's house.

"I think he's over there," I said. I held out my hand. "I'm Kate, by the way. You live in the neighborhood?"

In a cardboard box on the corner?

"Yeah," he said. "I was gonna buy this house!" he said, and pushed past me into the kitchen.

"I'm hungry!" he said, eyeballing the shelf of food I'd set up in the corner. There wasn't much to offer: maple syrup, oatmeal, cinnamon, salt, curry, and a package of rice crackers.

He pointed to the crackers.

"Can I eat these cookies?" he asked.

"Take 'em," I said.

He picked up the package and tore it open. "Hey, you gots some milk?" he asked.

No, I said. I didn't have any milk. Which was sort of a lie. I had soy milk in the 'fridge, but I wasn't about to pour the pushy homeless dude a cold glass of Silk.

"You ain't gots no milk? How can I have cookies with no milk?! How come you ain't gots no milk?!"

The nerve! I couldn't take it any longer. Even homeless people should mind their manners -- especially when they're an uninvited guest in a stranger's house.

"I think Roger's next door," I said. "Maybe he's got some milk."

Homeless guy wasn't getting the hint. I told him that he should be satisfied with the cookies, and told him I didn't like to be disrespected in my own home. "I invite you into my house, give you cookies, and you're mad because I don't have any milk?" I told HG that isn't how I operate.

"Roger's waiting for you," I said. "I think you should leave."

"Okay, okay," he said, hands up in surrender. "Thanks for the cookies." The door was still wide open.

"You got a husband?" he asked.

"No," I said. "But I have a mean dog." And a crowbar.

The dogs and I are sleeping on the couch in the dining room. Cozy, w/ three of us on the sofa. Rex weighs almost as much as I do, and is a hundred times as gassy. I awake in the night gasping for air...

I put the BEWARE OF DOG sign in the window before anything else... Pretty sure the house will get broken into...inevitable, I think.

This morning, as I was walking back home w/ Rex (morning dog walk), I passed a group of approx. ten kids hanging out on my street corner. "Hey, guys," I said. (Better to be friendly than afraid. And what the hell am I afraid of?!? I taught high school in Brooklyn. Ghetto kids are my specialty. Hell, I love them!) "Hey, Miss," they hollered. Cute, calling me miss. I was tempted to invite them in for Cheerios and tea. Instead, I called their elementary school, which is just a block away. "These babies need to be in school," I told the secretary. "Come 'round 'em up!" Here I am, thinking these seven yr olds are drug dealing... As I was leaving for work, I saw them again...boarding a school bus. They were waiting for the fucking bus! Agh. And I ratted them out. For nothing! What a wetta.

Got my first piece of "real" mail today: a big, fat check for a freelance writing gig. A good omen? I think so.

The First Swing

2006-11-15T18:19:00.000-07:00

"Adventurous." That's what the contractor said when he looked at the house. He was here to give me an estimate on the windows (most of which are shattered). "You got a lot of work ahead of you, girl."

So I do.

It's my first house, a run-down fixer-upper built in the late 1920's, with few updates but for some 70's wood paneling and a wall mirror painted in glittery gold swirls. (My realtor says she wants it for above her bed.) The furnace is busted, electrical wires snake in and out of walls (out of code!), and the bathroom floor is rotted through to the foundation. The house reeks of cigarettes (I'm finding butts in the tub, behind the stove, and beneath the brown wall-wall carpeting that I tore from every floor of the house - inc. the bath and kitchen - yuck!).

The good news: it's got character. At least, that's what I'm clinging to. I struck hardwood floors in three of the main rooms (living room and two front bedrooms), which are in fairly good shape, and there's a chimney (wood stove!) that's covered w/ those fake brick faces.

My realtor thinks the previous owners were brother and sister. Harsh, yes, but I'd believe it. They're moving into a double-wide mobile home -- and surrendered their dog to the pound b/c dogs aren't allowed at the trailer park. (Poor pup!) They painted their living room ORANGE. No, PEACH. Pinky-orange, make you wanna puke PEACH. With brown trim. The place was so filthy when I moved in (this wknd), I thought that maybe they'd opted to move out instead of taking on the chore of cleaning. They had this nurse's station planked down in the middle of the kitchen as a counter. It was HIDEOUS! I demolished it w/ a sledghammer and found, underneath, heaping mounds of mouse shit. I've lived in NYC, but never have I seen anything nastier.

My first job? Replace the toilet seat. No way in HELL was I putting my ass on that old thing. I spent the weekend ripping up the carpet, pulling the paneling from the walls, and hosing every surface down with gallons of bleach. The pile of debris that accumulated after Saturday's work, alone, was astonishing (see pic!).

My neighbors are wondering who the "wetta" (blonde chick) is. For whatever reason, I'm always the only blonde kid in the neighborhood. The house is in downtown Albuquerque, which is pretty ghetto, but, I believe, getting "cool." EDo (East Downtown) is already totally gentrified, and that's a mere three blocks from my place. Many of the houses on my block have already been restored, and I have faith that the trend is toward restoration -- which means CASH. I'm gonna be rich, bitch. Just as soon as I find the money to make all of these changes. And it's gonna take A LOT. I ain't got it.

I put an ad on CraigsList, looking for someone with "the skills to pay the bills." i.e. Free rent for someone who's knowledgeable/experienced in renovation and contracting. Beyond cosmetic stuff, I don't know squat. But, I'm willing to learn! I know this project is going to teach me a lot. And I'm ready to swing my sledgehammer at whatever needs changin'.

...more to come. And photos!