some grousing, some happy

Jenn left a comment yesterday asking me to update because she’s getting worried that we’ve been eaten by subterranean plumbing reptiles and the like. Thanks for your concern, Jenn, and your offer of a search party. I realized I probably should have peeped at some point in the week to let you all know that we have made it through relatively unscathed, with nothing worse than a few minor water stains on the ceiling. Up until yesterday, we weren’t using the new sink much. Our contractor came back and fixed a few things, though, and now it seems safe to use. I still check the pipes and the base of the sink for leaks every time I wash my hands or brush my teeth, but assuming things continue to go well, I will probably manage to overcome that compulsion by the end of the week.

I envy people who have this home improvement stuff mastered. While I feel incredibly fortunate to have the means to make our house a bit nicer, especially considering the current economy, the process has me drained. I don’t know anything about plumbing, wiring, flooring, painting, or any of that stuff—just cleaning taxes my expertise. Eric doesn’t know much about this stuff either, although his ambition and capacity for cleaning certainly outstrips my own. At his initiative, we finally cleaned our basement, which has been a catch-all for crap ever since we moved in almost three years ago. We made it so nice that running on the treadmill down there actually became a pleasure. For a day. Then the treadmill broke.

I am very, very unhappy about the treadmill. I googled “treadmill repair,” stared blankly at a few of the hits, and then went to the couch and curled up in a fetal position.

It is entirely possible that as I write this I am still a little high on varnish fumes. Yesterday’s project was staining the new banister that we had built almost a month ago. Due to torn window screens and an inquisitive cat, we can’t open about half of our windows, so rather than ventilating properly, the fumes just hung around, clouding our judgment, which is probably what made us decide to spend half our evening frying catfish.

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Between the home improvements, the foster/adoption licensing, the soul-searching around the foster/adoption licensing, and my attempts to find a convenient time to get myself knocked out and have my wisdom teeth yanked, I have been slightly overwhelmed lately. And I’ve been worrying about money. Specifically, I’ve been worrying about money for next year, and whether or not I can afford to go to back for a PhD. When I decided to go back to school, I also decided that I wasn’t going to add to our collective educational debt. If I don’t get it paid for, I reasoned, I just won’t go. Ever since I got my acceptance news in January, I’ve been waiting to hear about what kind of cash they can offer me, if any.

My department nominated me for a university scholarship, but I had to compete with other nominees from across the humanities, and I didn’t get it. I got a letter on Saturday morning telling me as much. Although I had never gotten my hopes very high for the scholarship, I still spent several hours imagining my not-in-school future and wallowing in self-pity.

Eventually I snapped out of it and went to the basement to help Eric fix the dryer. It’s too complicated to explain what’s wrong with it; let’s just call it “duct tape failure.” Fixing it involves wedging myself behind the dryer, whacking things with pliers, and hurling profanity-laced conspiracy accusations at various inanimate objects, including my cell phone, which was stashed in my back pocket, and chose, at the moment when I was most thoroughly stuck, to beep at me.

People never call me. People never call me unless my phone is two floors away from my person, in my zipped purse while I’m driving, or forgotten in my car, or unless I have just poured myself into the six-inch space between our dryer and the south wall of our basement, with my cell phone on digital roam, our basement being out of the range of cell phone towers.

I de-wedged myself and went upstairs, where, for some inexplicable, maddening reason, my phone remained on digital roam. It had been a long week, and I was getting testy. “Son of a BITCH!” I hollered. “What the FUCK?!” (Like Jon Stewart, I was raised by feral longshoremen.) Eventually I restored my regular service by turning the phone off and on again. It beeped. I had a new message.

It was the graduate director of the department, offering me two years’ guaranteed assistantship. I called her right back, and when we were finished talking, Eric went out and bought champagne. We blew off the dryer.