Each time we’ve began some sort of home improvement project in the house, whether it’s spring-cleaning the pantry, installing organizers and shelving in the bathroom, or sorting through the spot next to the microwave. You know the place. We all have one in our kitchens, where mail, school notices, small toys picked up after being stepped on get shoved. Until it’s an impending avalanche upon slightest touch zone. The place where you’re better off pointing to it and just saying, “It’s in there. Somewhere,” and turning your back before the rolling eyes suggest you had something to do with it.
Well, I cleaned that spot the other day. It looks so neat and nice, I don’t want anyone to touch it. Worse part, I forgot to take the “before” pic, so my friends who don’t come around every week would believe me when I described the niche as dangerous.
And I always forget to take the before pics. Which drives me nuts, because without them, it’s hard to truly see the extent of change and progress that was made. Continue reading
When you move from most anywhere in the world to the vicinity of New York City, the price tag on just about everything doubles and you learn to make do with less space and, simply, with less, in general. Unless you’re related to the Rockefellas or the Goodfellas!
I still remember driving around North Shore Long Island eight years ago as Hubs and I decided to search for our first house. We had rented for more than three years when we got the memo that the monthly rent would double when he no longer served as a resident [Attendings didn’t get the same breaks.] We knew it was time to become a home owner. Not sure which, if any, home we could afford, but we had to try.
So we drove around different neighborhoods within a ten-mile radius of Hubby’s job. Because we hoped we could find something that would at least cut out the commute time out of his day. Hearing him tell me he dozed off at the wheel after working all night during residency one too many times had me convinced that we had to be a hop, skip and a jump from the hospital. Little else mattered. Continue reading
[Note: This is part 3 of a week long of Tree House stories…]
When the dust of emotions settled and reality set in, Hubs and I both knew that we had no choice. The tree house had to be moved. It was the only chance of the Town removing the charges and the only way we could pursue a permit. But the question evaded us:
How EXACTLY do you move a tree house?
It’s not like moving a piece of furniture, manageable with the help of a few flexed muscles and a dolly. The tree house has a tree going through it. And although it doesn’t sit on a tree, our wooden castle is no dog house. Continue reading
Almost five years ago, hubby began dreaming about building a house. But not just any ordinary castle. His idea was to create a structure that would both invite and delight. A place our daughters could play in. And a home that they could share with their friends. A tree house.
So hubs did what all dads without Engineering degrees do when they want to build something. He drove to Home Depot, talked to a bunch of employees, each with his own idea of which tool will do the job, and then he bought two books on Tree Houses. And Hubby doesn’t consider himself a reader.
Almost a year later, neighbors were asked and informed, consulted and queried. Everyone gave his idea two thumbs up and back to Home Depot Hubs went. To buy the first of many pre-cut pieces of pressure-treated wood to protect the developing structure from the elements of wind and rain and snow. Because he knew and we all knew, that this baby was not going to be finished in one day. Continue reading