home ownership and stuff

Because I want to see how many things I can possibly take on while training for Ironman, we bought a 92-year-old house, started remodeling it and moved in right when construction began.

I strategically placed this box so the mister would find it.

We're currently living in the basement with three cats, five bikes (and there are two more bikes in the garage, which also had a tree fall on it recently -- don't worry, the bikes are fine, but we did lose electricity for about 24 hours) and a shit-ton of boxes. It smells like a mix of cat poop and sweat, with a hint of dog from the pooch that lived here before us.

Thank god for homeowners' insurance.

There's a giant dumpster and a port-a-potty in the driveway. The upstairs has gaping holes in the floors where the radiators used to be, and there is a random toilet in what will one day, someday, be the guest room. People I've never seen before come in and out of the house, and one time I came home to a shirtless man with a shop vac.

I feel like everything is a massive cat death trap. Unfortunately, the cats feel like everything is a grand adventure and keep trying to sneak upstairs. The other day I nearly had a heart attack looking for Mouse. Turned out she had somehow gotten into the boiler room (that's right -- this house is so old we have a boiler room) and climbed up into a hole in the ceiling, next to a pipe that has been specially wrapped because it might have asbestos in it. (Yes -- asbestos!)

Dear god, I hope we all survive the next few months. (Also, I never should've read House of Leaves right before moving because now I suspect our house is trying to swallow us.)