domicile

Where have all the doorknobs gone?

  Painted knobs to be stripped 
  Originally uploaded by emira.

The other night over diner with friends Martin commented that our house was held together with cobwebs, and he was right. Though I would modify that to say that the house is held together with a delicate balance of cobwebs, dust and paint. Layers and layers of paint. And while in some places those many layers of oil, latex and likely lead paint are holding this puppy together, in other places there just a good old fashioned pain in the ass. Like on screws. Flat head screws no less, with so many layers of paint that one has to look at them at just the right angle to even see where the slot once was under those 13 layers of paint -- green, yellow, blue, white, brown, green again, yellow, turquoise, and on and on.

It was precisely because of the well painted flat screws on the door knobs that I originally thought I would just carry on the tradition and paint right over top of them. But after living with a few door handles painted primer white for a month or so know the folly of my ways became abundantly clear. You see all the knobs and trim in the house came in a kind of dirty pastel yellow colour (undoubtedly not dirty when it was first painted) which is inoffesive at best, cloying at its worst, but certainly great at hiding dirt and grime -- a handy quality in a door knob let me tell you. White doorknobs? Not so much. After a month, which included plenty of cleaning and wiping of said knobs, they were filthy and grey. And so, before Sarah and I set out to paint the livingroom trim this weekend (more on that in a separate post) I bought a can of "Paint Strippa" (no really that's what is called) and spent a frustrating hour trying to get a flat headed screwdriving into painted over brass screws. It was not my idea of a good time.

While we were not exactly religious folks growing up, there were a few universal "truths" in our childhood. Those espoused by my father included: flat headed screws are the brain child of one sadistic mofo; duct tape can fix anything (for real); celery holds court as the most offensive of all vegetables; and something about Joe Strummer and the second coming. While I may not buy into all that my dad preaches, I'm totally on board with the flat headed screws thing, as I suspect anyone who has ever tried to use one is. But when you're trying to pry those suckers out of numerous doorknobs and need to try to keep them in tact because you'll have a heck of time trying to replace 60 year old brass screws from 60 year old doorknobs at Home Depot, you'll really develop a personal hate-on for that guy who invented them.

Moving on. Once those puppies were all out of there, I took the knobs in their painty glory out to garage where I carefully painted them in highly toxic gel. And voila! Those many layers of equally toxic paint bubbled and cracked and in some cases just bubbled right off. In others, not so much. There was a second coat. Later in the day there was some scraping help from Sarah. And the next day Martin and I took some steel wool to them and buffed off the remaining bits and paint residue. By the end, the knobs all came out a bit different from one another, which is kind of fun to be honest. Most of them lost their brass plating to the brutal stripping experience, others maintained bits of it in places. One came out as shiny and chrome-y as can be (that one is my favorite, if you can play favorites with your door knobs). All in all, they've got what you'd probably call character, so they fit in just fabulously with our wee home held together with spiderwebs and paint and lordisa knows what else. And now everytime I use a door handle I get a little thrill....

The (Highly Indulgent) Search for a Smaller Pie Plate

Am I the first person to think of this? Surely not. In fact a trip down the disposable tin cookware section of any dollarstore will attest to the fact that someone, somewhere once thought that veering from the traditional 9" pie plate size was a good idea.

And when you think of it, it is more than a good idea: it is brilliant. I've spent years living alone and loving pie. I love making crust. I love the smell of pie cooking. And I love eating pie. Just not a whole 9" pie myself in 4 or 5 days. And now that I'm two people (and for two days a week three) making a whole 9" pie, and eating it in the same week isn't quite such a stretch, but it seems a bit excessive. And so I keep fantasizing about a 6 or 7" pie plate. A smaller pie plate that I could then make the crust for and freeze a twin for another spontaneous pie weeks or even months later. I feel the same way about quiche, and those who know me well have suffered through my years of searching for smaller quiche pans (and eventually finding thank you very much). But the hunt for a smaller pie plate has just begun. And do far it isn't proving too fruitful (pardon the pun).

A web search reveals nothing veering off the standard 9" size with the exception of the odd 10 or 12" pie plate for when your getting the extended family together to make nice over some baked apples. But nothing smaller. Unless you count the extremely far too ridiculous/Martha-esque realm of individual pie plates. For some reason those give me a sense of culinary-perfectionism and north american indulgence gone way bad. And then there's this "perfect" pie plate (sic) with its own Pie Bird which will apparently work its birdy magic to ensure that your pie doesn't overflow? My mother always said to make good pastry one must be relaxed (and have cold hands) and I think with the watchful eye and judgement of a ceramic pie bird, I may never make good pastry again.

And so I ask you -- dozens of readers -- if you know of somewhere one can acquire a 6 or 7" pie plate, do let me know. There may be a smallish pie in it for you.

Closet Cases

I was once called a "clothes horse" by a dear friend, a label I've worn admittedly with pride ever since. I'm not sure if my fashion lust was created -- perhaps as a result of five years of the restrictive monotony of private school uniforms -- or is simply a part of my nature, but I do so adore clothes (and shoes, bags, jewelry, and well hats). And as a lover of clothes and accessories is it safe to say I have a bit of a collection. We're not talking "archives" and backstock, but we're talking a healthy closet and dresser full. Plus shoes. And then the separate closet for jackets.

And Martin. Well in many ways I'd say it is safe to say that Martin and I are a bit of a case of opposites attract: I can be serious to a fault, Martin decidely more lighthearted; I'm a worrier, he's a prankster; I'm a vegetarian, he's allergic to soy; and so on. But when it comes to shoes, and jackets and clothing in general, we're a perfect matching set. (Not that we wear the same things, though we do both have feather boas... but you know what I mean).

And so, while this makes for fabulous couple bonding trips to Value Village. And much in the way of a common appreciation for magazines and shoe shopping, it does not make for much in the way of fabulous couple happiness when it comes to living in houses from 1945. Apparently, in 1945 women had maybe four dresses, two skirts and a blouse or two, while men had the requisite suit, some pants and a coupla dress shirts. I imagine there were also 4 pairs of shoes (black and brown for him and her). And if that was the sum total of our wardrobes we would have closets a plenty. But it is not. And we do not.

The solution to this after much cramming of precious items, and valiant attempts at serious wardrobe editting on both our parts, the one bedroom closet was simply not cutting it. So, Martin, being a gallant partner left me to the bedroom closet and took over the one in his daughter's room (she's not with us full time and at 9 had not yet shown signs of inheriting her father's clothing proliclivities). That was about a month ago and it certainly made for some breathing room in my own closet. But honestly, it still wasn't enough. What's a clothes horse to do?

A serious further edit was not really an option. I may love this house. And I've gladly adjusted my lifestyle and expectations in some ways already -- baths instead of showers, slightly curtailed budgets in favour of mortgage payments, etc -- but giving up years of lovingly collected and treasured fashion finds including, thanks to a mutually beneficial work-trade with one of my favorite local designers Allison Wonderland a seasonally expanding collection of favorites, was simply not an option. And so with the onset of the rain and the general drop in temperature in recent weeks I decided to try to make the closet space I have a bit more functional.

It was a very rewarding process I have to say. Pretty much everything came out. A few forgotten pieces that didn't seem to hold their original allure were laundered and taken for consignment. Others were brought out and put into the altering pile for slight reconstructions and updates. A pile for drycleaning was made. Fall boots were put in bags to go to the cobbler for resoling. And then everything was put back in the closet, summer items at the back out of reach until next year. Tops and bottoms were grouped together. And with everything laid out before me like that, I was overcome by a truly unfamiliar sensation: I didn't really need anything else. This is of course to say, that I could still lust after beautiful things to my heart's content and I would ultimately really love a new pair of winter flats. But, upon careful analysis my current wardrobe is in pretty excellent shape. In the end I decided I would love to have a pair of grey pants to round things out, and to replace an old pair that were retired at the end of winter last year. But all told, when it comes to clothes, I'm for the first time perhaps since those private school days, not feeling a need for more. (It is worth saying that I'm kind of cheating here as I got my pick from this Fall collection).

Martin claims to be feeling the same way. Though he does most of his shopping these days out at Value Village and will likely pick up a few new experimental pieces to try out over the Winter. And he does have his eye on yet another pair of shoes it would seem, which I can really hardly begrudge him in good faith.

Lakefront Property

  backyard swimming pool 
  Originally uploaded by emira.

It's been awfully rainy in Vancouver lately (for those who don't happen to be enjoying it currently) and well, turns out our backyard really doesn't drain too well... At least not one half of it. So we're kind of getting a bit of a "puddle" back there. As long as the basement continues to stay dry (touch wood) I'll not be too stressed about this. Though I assume we need to do something about this before we go starting on projects like building a deck (which would require sinking supports into this wee lake of ours) and it is making me think about getting some rubber boots for the backdoor for carting the garbage can out every week.

As I stood and looked at it this morning with my coffee in hand, I seriously wondered what the path of least resistance was. While I have all these visions of a garden at the very back, a deck of the kitchen and such, I began to think that maybe a seasonal pond, or water garden wasn't such a bad idea.

I guess this means we need to start talking someone about "drainage"? Though that's really not on my top 5 list of hot things to think about in any one given day, but too late I suppose...

Botanus = Bulbalicious!

  cleaning up the beds for winter 
  Originally uploaded by emira.

I strongly suspected that today was going to be one of the last days of sun to grace our West Coast Fall, and so devoted the better part of the day to weeding, transplanting and generally getting the garden ready for winter. I also had a fabulous box of bulbs that had arrived from Botanus about a week ago. The box contained primarily tulips (early, late and miniature) as well as a few samples/extras. I ordered these bulbs I think the week after we first looked at this house,and it felt a bit surreal at the time to sit at the computer and try to imagine/plan what kinds of flowers I would want to plant at our new house.

I had largely forgotten what I ordered when I opened the box, though I think I chose well. My only mistake being excess I think. I planted close to (or perhaps more than) 100 bulbs today after cleaning out most of the beds, doing a thorough weed and transplanting some lilies that were threatening to take over a kill a rose bush with their victory. What I of course hadn't really counted on when I placed that order, was what might already be in the yard. In all my digging and tilling of the existing and reclaimed beds around the house, I've come across many kinds of bulbs, none of which I can certainly identify. But Spring will undoubtedly bring a series of surprises. We may just have a little tulip factory out there.

It was a tiring day, and took longer than I had thought it would (which really seems to be the lesson of house-chores and possibly life in general), but it was incredibly satisfying to be out there, the dirt of our home literally caked under my fingernails, chatting with the neighbourhood locals who are becoming increasingly familiar, Pluto supervising my every move, digging with the shovel and hoe left in the garage here and planting the bulbs I bought that day in June (which seems much further than 4 months away) when the idea of this house becoming our home was really only a concept and admittedly a wish.

On sickness, houseguests and many many boxes of kleenex

  brunch at our domicile 
  Originally uploaded by emira.

October was supposed to be the month of houseguests at domicile. And in fact, it was, it just didn't all pan out the way I had hoped.

Early in the month my fabulous friend Inga was coming up with her girlfriend Misty, who I had yet to meet (though had interviewed many moons ago) for a 5 or 6 day stay. That was to be followed by the arrival of one of my very best friends t.l. (pictured in the foreground of the photo there) who would be with us for a week. My mind and heart were full of the promise of lots of late nights of chatting, cocktails, urban adventures, dinner parties and the like while our house was full of some of the folks most dear to my heart (excepting those who can always be found here of course). And while they all arrived safe and sound (and in fact t.l. is still here for a few more days) the cocktails were comprised of immune tinctures instead of vodka and the late nights of chatting turned into sleepless nights of nose blowing. For me anyway. Not 8 hours after Inga and Misty arrived I had a sneezing fit, which left me suddenly overcome with an agonizing headcold. There was no warning. No nagging sore throat or itchy nose preceeded the onset. But inspite of the gentle lead up, it was nasty.

And so, while Martin gallantly entertained them over their stay, and I managed to haul myself out of flannel pajamas for the really special events, I spent the bulk of the time semi-comatose in bed with rotating boxes of kleenex.

The day that Inga & Misty left, to be replaced by t.l., we hosted a fabulous brunch chez nous. I had planned this ahead of time, thinking that I would have friends over for the changing of the houseguests and provide Inga & Misty with a lovely good-bye meal, and t.l. with a welcome nosh. As I went back to bed (around 8pm) the night before I realized that our fridge -- harbouring only chinese food left overs and gingerale -- was not going to be able to deliver much in the way of brunch, nor frankly was I. So a plea for help, and one fabulous chef in training later and the next morning the house was full of the smells of goat cheese, roasted tomato scramble, tofu scramble, hash browns, soy bacon and fruit salad. Yum! And I did manage to enjoy it even though I could taste very little of it.

And finally, last night a full week after that evil cold attacked me, I had my first night out with t.l. and managed to get just a little bit hammered on two pints at the Irish Heather, which was long overdue. Tomorrow will be my last day to spend with her, and it's going to be hard not to try to cram all those plans for wandering around town, window shopping, soy lattes, and cocktails into one final frenzied day and actually just relax and enjoy having her around here. Fortunately my need still always be close to a full box of kleenex will force me to take it a little bit easy...

Love and Asphalt

  tar baby 
  Originally uploaded by emira.

The thing about cohabitation (and co-ownership) of any home is that sometimes your day is interupted with unexpected bursts of emotion. It's easy to get caught up in the uglier ones: irritation over dishes undone left in the sink, that habit of always leaving cupboard doors open, the tendency of one person to never come up to the table when called for food, and well I'm sure I have irritating habits as well. And we expect these. Expect to have sticky moments in cohabitation. Moments where you wistfully think back to your days of singleness living alone in only your own mess and habits.

What I wasn't expecting in Martin and my great project of homeownership (and ongoing renovations) was the sudden swelling of love that will sometimes strike me at the most unexpected of times. Like recently when I came home from work to find Martin and our friend Jonas covered in tar, dirt and filth, climbing around on our garage roof with pails of Roof Glue (TM), boxes of nails and strips of asphalt.

Martin had told me since we moved in that he was going to reroof the garage and frankly I didn't really think it would happen. Not because I doubted his ability, or his commitment to getting things done, more because it seemed to me like the least likely thing I would ever wake up one day and plan to do. But he is not me, and thank goodness for that, and so he took a day off work, roped in Jonas and got to work on making it happen.

I had doubted that it would all be done in a day, and I'm sad to say that I was right. That day he and Jonas got a lot of the work done, but at 9pm when it was too dark to see and too late to hammer in nails, they packed it in. For the next few days I would come home from work/errands to see Martin through the kitchen window, busy up on the roof finishing the job.

In terms of renovation lessons learned I think Martin learned that roofing is one task we'd rather hire out. Dirty, tar-y (if that is a word) and generally totally icky, it was no fun at all.

Returning to my earlier point, I learned (again) just how much I adore this man. Seeing him out there, doing something I would never dream of taking on, and going back to it day after day even after he had decided that it was really not his favorite new skill at all stirred my affection in unexpected ways. It went beyond just simply being thankful that he was willing to deal with cans of roofing tar, sheets of asphalt and many hours spent hunched over trying to make each of those two elements agree with one another. It was a feeling that ran deeper than that. I imagine it is similar to what he describes he feels when I cook for him (yikes gender stereotypes ahead look out!), and I'm not necessarily sure just what brought it on, nor am I particularly concerned about finding out. I'm pretty pleased just to stand in the kitchen in the evening, watching him out there with a hammer working away at making our little house a better home.