A month and a half ago, Beloved and I began merrily ripping apart the deck on the back of Chateau Travolta. It's a big deck, around the size of my first Kansas City apartment, and it had railings and a rickety pergola, as well.

Since then, we've braved torrential rains and searing heat to tear the deck down to the joists and begin building it back. (If you like home improvement posts, I'll be blogging this when it's done.)

Nothing has been as entertaining as the search for the elusive Cabot Australian Timber Oil in Honey Teak.

The elusive Cabot. Goddamn it, you will not break me.

There is no evidence I can find that this color is discontinued. However, I have only been able to track its movements one gallon at a time across Ace Hardware store websites that claim a gallon is at this store or that store, but when you buy it online and then drive to said store, the Cabot has already moved on. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Arens, we don't have two gallons. We only have one. Our inventory system was just joking.

Sometimes, I'll drive to a store and it will be there. Sometimes the cashier will stare dumbly at me while waving for another employee to hurry up and come deal with this woman who has a coupon that I have never seen before did she print it at home is she a felon I don't know so I'll just stare.

Why don't I buy more than one gallon at a time? See above.

And the price! It varies wildly. I have paid $59, $44 and $10.95 for identical gallons of the elusive Cabot, the latter after a request for a twenty-mile, across-metro, in-store transfer that ended with, "Bobby says why don't you just drive over there?"

I have never seen a product so wily or so variable in its price and availability. I think it has something to do with the actual color "honey teak," because I can find its brethren in Home Depot and Lowe's .. but when I ask for honey teak, they need to call Brad in customer service because they have never heard of such a color.

Yet, it exists.

At this point, we have used two gallons on the rails and pergola and still need to sand and stain the actual deck floor.

God help us all if we need another gallon.

When I was younger, there were several outbuildings alongside my parents' driveway. One of them was a corn crib for hogs that became where we stored my horse Cutter's hay and grain. One of them was a hog shed that became Cutter's barn and my tack room. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still smell the inside of those buildings. They've since been torn down as they outlived their useful lives, but my father kept the wood.

I don't remember how it came up, but Pa offered to let Beloved and I have this wood if we would come help plane it down. Chateau Travolta's deck has a large footprint, and the wood appears to be near original. We patched it a little last summer, but it's getting really rotted. We're going to use the corn crib cypress wood to resurface the deck next spring. 

Here's what the wood looked like before we started.

It's pretty rough and still has a little bit of old white paint clinging to it.

Pa bought a secondhand planer and we bought some blades for it. Pa and Beloved gave me permission to use this pic of them and the planer. I was the catcher, so to speak. I would grab the boards as they came though the business end of the planer and help them through. Sometimes this was just holding and sometimes this meant leaning with all my strength when they got kind of ... stuck.

Each board took a minimum of one and usually more like two or three passes. 

First pass.

Second pass.

Getting closer.

You could tell things were rocking when the big shavings started to come out. 

So pretty!

I lost track of how many boards we did. I would guess somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty. Then I bagged up all the sawdust shavings. I think we had around seven 55-gallon bags of shavings, which Pa is going to add diesel to before using them for sweeping compound, whatever that means. He did push a little pile of the wood shavings outside the Morton building. When I asked him what he was going to do with them, he said, "I'm going to pour some diesel fuel on them and set them on fire, because that's the kind of guy I am."

I've got to use that in a novel somehow.

So he did, and that is how I learned how to control a fire without any boundary. I got to put it out.

It took all day. It was satisfying. I can't wait for spring.

Live on, wood. Good job.

First, there was rain. From my bed, it sounded nice and dreamy, the kind of rain that makes you want to record it for posterity and secure your mosquito nets as you drift back off to sleep on a peaceful Carribean island. Near a waterfall. And interesting birds. 

Since we've been in Chateau Travolta for six years and haven't had water in the basement since that fateful first week, it didn't occur to me to check the basement for water until the little angel and I had donned our swimsuits to avoid the torrential rain at the local rec center pool. Beloved, unfortunately, caught us before we escaped with the news that Hoggin Craft had flooded and Tiny was a casualty. 

We crashed down the stairs to find two inches of water in the Hoggin Craft headquarters. Tiny was indeed soaked in a way only a giant stuffed gorilla can be soaked, and that is a way in which soaked is soaked and don't even think about keeping him because BLACK MOLD IS REAL. I asked Beloved if we could stick Tiny in the basement shower to drain while we cleaned up the mess. No, we could not, he said, because Tiny is too damn big to fit in a shower for humans.

Farewell, Tiny. I can only imagine your trip to the landfill.

We mopped up the muck and threw the rest of the stuffed animals that were stored in Hoggin Craft (in case of a tornado, extra stuffed animals are required to live in Hoggin Craft full-time by the little angel) were in the washer. Only two hours remained before the indoor pool closed, so Beloved excused the little angel and me, but our joy was short-lived, because an hour or so later, I got a text from Beloved: 

Borrowed ladder. Will need you to hold it when you get home so I can blow out the gutters.

Oh, yay! Can we please spend the rest of our day off from work cleaning out gutters after vacuuming up four bathtubs' worth of water?

Our roof is quite tall. I really hate seeing anyone on very tall ladders, least of all someone to whom I'm related by blood or marriage. But no, we had to do it, and I knew we had to do it, but I very much did not want to do it, anyway. Alas.

Minutes later, there I found myself, holding a ladder, while my husband used a leafblower tied to an extension pole to blow water, dead leaves and helicopters out of the gutter and on to ... me. It was like some unique form of Nickoledean-sponsored torture to close my eyes and grimace as I was spattered with rotting, muddy tree matter as neighbors frolicked about in the sunshine, enjoying their Memorial Days and pretending like they weren't listening to me squawk as I was pelted with feculent foliage.

After the little angel went to bed, we had this conversation.

Beloved: "We're going to have to do that every spring if we don't want more water in the basement, you know."

Me: "I know. I hate ladders."

Beloved: "Maybe we should get those gutter covers."

Me: "That sounds like the least fun way to spend thousands of dollars I can think of. Except maybe mudjacking."

Beloved: (.)

Me: "I am so bored by this conversation I can't even believe I'm continuing to talk."

Adulthood, huzzah!

Him: "Are you sure the kitchen walls are Egg White? We also have Egg Shell."

Me: "I'm positive. Absolutely positive."

Him: "I don't know. This doesn't look right."

Me: "I painted both sides of the wall the wrong paint color before. Do you need me to go pull up my archives for you?"

Him: "Okay, then. Egg White."

And then I stomped back to the foyer to paint the space next to the baseboards the WRONG COLOR OF WHITE.

Make it stop. Just make the painting thing stop. Guess what I'm doing tonight?

When we moved to Chateau Travolta in 2008, the housing market was on the verge of tanking. Then it tanked, and the For Sale signs started popping up like dandelions. Some of those houses took years to sell, which made me realize just how stupid it was to take on two mortgages at once when we sold This Old House to move here.

This week there are ladders all over my neighborhood, as the houses built in 1978 have begun to show their age. Shingles pushed well beyond their limits topple from  roofs. The boards on the sides of houses are torn away and replaced. The aluminium ladders sparkle in the May sunshine. 

As I jogged past a pile of boards pocked with bent nails, I started thinking about the kitchen remodel I've not blogged about. It's not that I'm not proud of it -- I am -- it's so pretty -- but I really only feel comfortable blogging home improvements we did with our own little hands, and though the demolition was difficult and Beloved has been moonlighting as a drywall installer, a plumber and an electrician for the past two months while I just took a crowbar and pried off floor tiles and anything else that pissed me off, for some reason, I just didn't want to blog about it because there were so many parts we paid someone else to do, and then for some reason that feels braggy in a way "look at the pocket door Beloved installed" doesn't. This may be justified only in my head. Or worrying about bragging in a Pinterest world may be ridiculous. Or I may be a huge hypocrite because I brag about my writing here (or at least that's what the About Me page feels like, but dude, I'm a professional writer, not a professional kitchen person). I'm conflicted, clearly.

Anyway, I was thinking about all that stuff while jogging by these piles of wood in my neighborhood and feeling so happy my neighbors were fixing up their houses instead of selling them. And feeling happy they had both the money and the desire to maintain their houses so they don't fall apart. And feeling happy and proud that we are taking care of Chateau Travolta and will leave it a better place than we found it. I wrote on BlogHer earlier this week about not toppling your blocks, and ever since then I've been really focused on how important it is to pay attention to your mind and body and environment and address problems right away, before they metastasize into something more. 

Maybe it came from growing up in a house my father built perched on the edge of land my family farmed. I like taking root, propping up and staying on. I'm glad my neighbors do, too. There is beauty in that. 

I'm on deadline today, so all I have to share is a giveaway for free tickets to the 2013 Kansas City Home Show and Flower, Lawn & Garden Show on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.

Took Buttonsworth to the vet today and we upped his insulin again. More later.

The kitchen is the last room not in the basement that needs to be remodeled in Chateau Travolta. The country rose wallpaper has been scraped off, the dark wood wainscoting pried from the walls, one arch put in, the walls painted, new windows installed. We still need to replace the half-hanging-off cabinets and the counter top and the back splash that is half-missing and covered in clear packing tape above the stove. Oh, and the tile. The linoleum is still missing a chunk from when we installed tile in the half-bath.

And for the past year or so, we haven't had blinds in the bay windows or above the sink. There were blinds there once, aluminum Venetian blinds stained with rust and bent in places. When the man came to replace the windows, he pulled them off, and I just threw them away, thinking we'd buy new blinds soon.

"Soon" turned, as it does, into seasons passing and nights growing shorter and an entire winter of eating dinner in front of windows that became mirrors at six in the evening, of learning to be fully dressed and wearing a hat when I came downstairs for breakfast on weekend mornings, to being on display for the two families living behind us. Not that they are total spies, but how could you not look in at night when the lights are blazing and there we are, living our lives like television characters?

I hated it. So in February, we got the windows measured for shades. I wanted Roman shades, not being aware that Roman shades cost more than a new sidewalk. I readjusted my expectations and picked out some pretty woven roller shades at half the price of the Roman but twice the price of What the Fuck.

And we waited for the money tree to grow.

Then earlier this summer, an unexpected freelance gig came along, and lo and behold, it paid EXACTLY the amount of the shades. Which I totally took to be fate. So we ordered the shades.

A nice man and woman came to Chateau Travolta yesterday and installed them. I gave them cinnamon rolls left over from the cul-de-sac sleepover last Saturday. And then I drew my shades.

I was shocked at how boxed-in I felt. Apparently I'd grown accustomed to having the world see in, because it meant, too, that I could see out.

Ever have a writing project that's not moving as quickly as you want?

PAINT STUFF.

Wish you could take a three-week vacation to Europe?

PAINT STUFF.

Scared about how hot this summer's going to be if it's already 80 before St. Patrick's Day?

PAINT STUFF.

Tired after a conference followed by an intense workweek?

DON'T SLEEP. PAINT STUFF.

Painting stuff is awesome. It's the cheapest way I know to start over. In the 2011-2012 edition of The Transformation of Chateau Travolta, Beloved put in a doorway arch that I completely forgot to document and then he got a wild hair and painted the dark beams in the living room white. Once he did that, I realized how much I hated the Friendly Yellow on the living room walls even though I love it in the hall. 

So then we decided we needed white molding to go with the new white ceiling and if we were going to go to that much trouble, we might as well paint the whole room, because what the hell.

So that's coming soon. I hope we get it all done this weekend, because the molding's been sitting in the garage since February. (That last bit was for my mother, who thinks we work really fast. It's all relative, Ma.)

This is all part of dealing with the fact I really want to use the Corolla insurance money to buy a 1984 convertible with cash. I will paint stuff instead, because that would be foolish. 

Right?

"We're taking the truck."

"Why?"

"Because we're going to the Habitat for Humanity Restore. Why on earth would we not take the truck?"

Example #8,499 of Me Being Right

Beloved had a Groupon for the Habitat for Humanity Restore. That sentence alone is some crazy shit. Charities are on Groupon now? The premise is pretty much like Goodwill -- people donate stuff and they sell it and give all the proceeds to Habitat for Humanity. It's a giant junkyard -- nothing has been shined up unless it arrived that way -- and I am so totally going back to get some wood blinds as soon as I measure my windows.

While I was waiting for a huge cart (not a cart, more of what in Iowa we would call a lowboy), I spotted one of the workers putting a price tag on a sink.

A stainless steel sink.

With all of its hardware attached.

I let it sit on the ground for approximately FIVE SECONDS, because it was $40 and my old cast iron sink looks like this:

It's chipped. It's beige. It defies cleaning products. And it stinks.

I was wheeling this baby over when I heard my name being called. I looked around to see Beloved standing protectively over a Bosch dishwasher with stainless steel innards. It's beige, not white like I wish, but the old one threw ground-up bits of disgusting all over my dishes and looked like this:

New dishwasher  = $35.

So then Beloved walked over to the TV section and grabbed himself a huge TV for the garage for $15. We walked to the checkout. I pulled out the Groupon.

A woman approached me with something like rage in her eyes.

"Are you sure you want those?" she asked, eyeing my dishwasher and sink.

"Yes."

"Are you sure you're sure?"

"Yes."

Man, people.

So I hand the cashier the Groupon. It's $19 for $50 worth of stuff. Our grand total is $90.

Beloved piped up, ever the negotiator. He's like William Shatner, that boy.

"Can you cut us a deal?"

She eyed our stuff, eyed the Groupon.

"$27.50."

My mouth fell open. So we already paid $19 for the Groupon and another $27.50 is, um, $46.50 for a perfectly fine and functioning stainless steel sink, dishwasher and television?

As we were pushing our lowboy out to the truck -- YES, THE TRUCK! WE SHOULD TAKE THE TRUCK! -- two different people stopped me and congratulated me on my find. It may have been the shit-eating grin on my face.

It only took poor Beloved three trips to the hardware store and six hours to install them both. There was that moment where I had to borrow a large pipe wrench from a neighbor whom I've met once, but don't worry, I gave him two Summer Shandys for his trouble. Oh, and it might have been 110 degrees outside.

He loves me. He hates me. He loves me. He's handy!

But it's in, it's done, and it's so pretty.

Only countertops, cabinets, floor, dining room table and window treatments to go!

Thank you, baby.