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. 

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?

*Editor's Note: This editor has been too lazy to take photos, so that'll be a different post.*

Our continued efforts in the Transformation of Chateau Travolta rise and fall seasonally. In the summer, we become obsessed with the yard and flowers and the roof and the paint and the blah blah blah. In the chill of winter, when we're stuck inside all weekend long? OMG, the ceiling in the living room is so depressing. It's like hobbits live here or something.

(The ceiling has rough-hewn beams every six feet or so. They are were a chocolate color. Which is totally cool if you are a hobbit or live in a Tudor. Neither of those are we.)

Beloved installed the arch in the door between the kitchen and the living room a few months ago after my nagging incessantly about the unfinished doorframe for just a week or two, seriously. The arch is beautiful. And white. Which made those hobbit beams look even darker and goth-like in contrast. Also, the trim around the living room ceiling, which somehow in a paint-matching miscalculation is even darker brown than the beams, reminds me of wearing courdoroy with silk.

We've talked about painting those beams white or boxing them in since we moved in. But of course, every other project got in the way. It was finally the beautiousness of the arch that pushed Beloved over the edge. He really wanted to paint the ceiling. Ever since I painted the kitchen ceiling and dripped all over the lineoleum (thank goodness that's not staying, because people, I am telling you -- you do NOT want me to paint your ceiling), I swore never again. Not me. I'm not allowed to paint ceilings. Or remove tile. Not that I've ever accidentally punched a hole in a wall doing that. Um. 

So Beloved said if I left the house with the little angel, he would paint the ceiling and the beams. And this weekend, he did. It only took twelve hours.

The effect is pretty amazing. The trim still needs to be replaced, so it's not complete yet, but it's like the ceiling just rose by six inches. I no longer feel quite so hobbit-like.

We just keep hacking at this house, and with each measure, it feels more like ours.