The Tools at the Hardware Store

One of the best things about owning a fixer-upper is getting to shop at the boy stores. Boy stores include, but are not limited to The Home Depot, Lowes, Busy Beaver, etc. Only a boy would name a store "Busy Beaver." And a hardware store, nonetheless. Where you get nails, and hammers, and air wrenches. Can you see all the possibilities? Only a boy, readers. Only a boy.
My favorite thing about shopping at boy stores is all the charming looks you get from male customers when you're a hot, young woman who is by herself. It's the kind of look Hilary Clinton would get if she showed up at the Playboy mansion. Or Britney Spears if she showed up at a Self-Respect Convention.
Something like this.
I sometimes get a kick out of imagining men's inner monologue.
"Hmm. I wonder what that big breasted woman is doing here without a man. How's she going to know what she needs? Maybe she's one of those lesbian types. Oooh, lesbian types."
Or if I'm shopping with my sister: "Oooh, hot lesbian types."
Side note: I bought a pair of work boots last week, I own a tool box, a tool belt and three saws among various other power tools. It is entirely possible that I am a lesbian type. But certainly not with my sister. Gross.
I was at the Home Depot about a month ago, picking up a bunch of materials for my bathroom closet. And can I just say, that closet looks bad.ass. I made that closet my bitch, ya'll. I had one of those flat bed carts loaded up with some MDF (that's medium density fiberboard for you straight girls), shelf tracking, brackets, saw horses, base board trim, etc. So, I'm pushing this heavy ass cart around with some effort and I pass these two guys. As I'm making my way down the aisle to checkout I hear one of them say, "What's she doing with all that wood?
Oh, I'm sorry. Am I not allowed to purchase this much wood? Is there a wood ration I haven't heard about? Or is this 1941 Germany and my breasts are akin to a Star of David armband, therefore, I am not permitted to buy, sell or trade in this store? WTF, dude!! What am I doing with all this wood? I'm shoving it up your ass, you misogynistic dickhead.
I took his picture with my cell phone, so Ladies, if you see him, make sure you kick him in the happy sac for me. Tell him, "That's what she's doing with all that wood, Bitch."
The employees at the big chains are just as bad as the customers. I'm not including "The Beave" in that because the employees there are wonderfully helpful and kind and not at all condescending. I love "The Beave." See? Only a boy. Unfortunately, there are some things you just can't find at the Busy Beaver. Like a clitoris, if you're a man. Even I can't resist making a Busy Beaver joke. I've gotta be a lesbian. Add that to my list of issues. Number 3: Closet lesbianism. Side note: I do not have a problem with lesbians. Please don't send me hate mail. Thank you.
Back to the boy stores.
There are two types of male employees at the Home Depot: the type that is extremely helpful and chases you down to see if you need assistance in finding something or the type that you have to chase down for help and that proceeds to make fun of you while reluctantly giving it once you catch them. I've had both, and I much prefer the pursuant type, although they tend to drool on female customers. I'll take it as long they show me how to install ceramic tile.
The other kind do not even try to hide their disdain. They just try to hide. As if they're not getting paid to help you. HELLO!?! "The Home Depot. You can do it. We can HELP!?!" It's not, "The Home Depot. You may be able to do it. We'll help if we feel like it. But only if you're not a woman. If you are, we're sure you have a husband, father or brother you can ask for advice. If you don't, there's a Busy Beaver right down the street."
So, this is really going to make me sound like a lesbian, but Ladies, if you need a tool or advice I strongly suggest you head to the Beave.

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.