Behind the Green Paneling

That's right. Keep smiling, you bastard.

Mr. Pitsberger and I bought our first house back in August. I love my house. If I didn't love my house, I would not have spent more money than I make in 18 months to get it. However, like husbands, small children and anal sex, you can love something even though it's an enormous pain in the ass. And my house is absolutely an enormous pain in the ass. This is mostly due to the fact that we did something ragingly stupid in order to save money. Unfortunately, I'm not rich. Prostitution doesn't pay as well as it used to. We're in a recession, you know. Anyway, in order to get the kind of house we wanted at a price we could afford, we bought a fixer-upper.

Here it is.

I kid! It's not quite that bad. The house is actually in great shape. I hope I look as good as it does when I'm 108 years old. It's a big, old, five bedroom, three story, brick Victorian, complete with awe-inspiring wood work, stained glass and three fireplaces with original hearths and mantles. Considering that Mr. Pitsberger and I don't have any children and really aren't planning on having them at all, five bedrooms was a bit excessive, but we loved the house so much we couldn't pass it up. We're in it for the long haul and the home inspector told us that most of the work that needs done is cosmetic and hey, it usually only takes me 15 minutes to put my makeup on. How bad can this be? Worse than my worst possible nightmare.
My house and I are embroiled in a Civil War: a war in which parties within the same society fight against each other for the control of political power. Also, resolution of each project takes four years. Nothing is easy. Contrary to popular belief, a 41" shelf does not fit in 41" of space, even though I measured twice, cut once. Thanks for nothing, Bob Vila. You son of a bitch.
Every day is an adventure when you buy a fixer-upper. Behind some ugly ass green 70s paneling in one of the bedrooms I actually found a door. A door, in a frame, that leads into another bedroom. Or at least it would if the other bedroom wasn't paneled as well. I should try to walk through it. Maybe it's a doorway to another dimension. A dimension in which my house doesn't have rhino sized holes in the plaster where the previous owners updated the electrical wiring. And by "updated" I mean effed up completely.
I'm convinced that my house is trying to break me. It knows just how much bullshit I can take before I snap, yank my hammer out of my tool belt and start swinging at everything within reach while screaming obscenities that would cause Tony Soprano to first blush, then ask me to watch my mouth. It knows. It's like my very own Amityville Horror, only there's no Ryan Reynolds. Bummer.
I've been working on the bathroom closet since the dawn of man. I've been working on the bathroom closet for a while now. Before that I was stripping, staining and re-hanging the basement door. Those are the two projects I've gotten done in five months, not counting demolition, which seems to only make things look worse.
The reason things take me so long is that along with my chronic acute nebbitosis, I suffer from home remodeling dysmorphic disorder. I have issues, what can I say? Like you're so perfect. Symptoms of HRDD include engaging in repetitive and time-consuming behaviors, such as excessive unnecessary sanding, priming the inside of bathroom closets, and trying to hide or cover up a perceived defect. Also, constantly asking for reassurance that the defect is not visible or too obvious and repeatedly measuring or touching the perceived defect and inability to stop focusing on the perceived defect.
I actually said this to my husband: "Mr. P, I think this bathroom closet in which I am going to hang shelving anyway needs a third coat of paint." OK, maybe those weren't my exact words.
His reply: "I think it looks better than the inside of a closet should ever look." He's right. And not only does it look better than the inside of a closet should ever look, it looks better than ANY OTHER FREAKING ROOM IN MY ENTIRE HOUSE!! I told Mr. P I was going to sleep in there.
But take note, House. I will take you down brick by em-effing brick if I have to. I am straight gansta, Bitch. Bob Vila.ain't.got.nuthin'.on me!
Are there therapists for people like me? Cause I am in desperate need of one.