Water Under The Wall -or- Houseapalooza 2014

Shit happens.  

On July 22nd, as I rolled into the homestretch of Camp NaNoWriMo, I came home from work, went to the back door to look for the rabbit that had been visiting our backyard for much of the summer, and squished.  The carpet in our dining room was saturated with water that had leaked from our neighbors' washing machine.

[Maris] and I had been thinking about replacing the carpeting in our tiny townhouse - and we knew that its cheap, pre-2001 paint had long ago passed the end of its useful life - but we also happen to be incredible procrastinators, so we were in no way prepared to act on either of these home improvements.  And yet...

Ew...

In a fit of pique, I ripped up the damaged part of the carpeting, knowing that this would spur us to action.  And it worked.  Eventually.  Carpet was ordered, a painter was hired, and because [M] and I don't do anything half-assed, new blinds, closet doors, and bathroom and door hardware were selected.

We have no useable attic, and no basement, so we pretty much had to move out, for the duration of the work...

You have no idea how many paperbacks fit into those shelves.

We spent more nights than I care to recall in this room, at our local Extended Stay America.  I don't recommend doing this at any time, ever.  For any reason.  I mean, we've stayed in worse places, but...

And this view omits the TV with a 1970s-grade channel selection.

Meanwhile, back home...

Blurry is better, for this one.

Then...

Even the mighty iPhone and natural light fail to do justice to the improvement.

After another weekend of more work than either of us like to do to a house - ever - we lived there, again.  Our stuff (apart from the things we moved out to the trash and/or recycling and/or Goodwill) was back where it belonged.  Our walls had become untouchably beautiful - as had the floors and most everything else.  It pained us to hammer that first picture hook.

Same wall, different day.  Oh, and Halloween!  And don't knock the 25-year old Ikea dresser.  If that thing could talk...

We now float through the house like ghosts, physically willing everything to remain unblemished, like teenagers with brand-new sneakers.  It's still technically not much of a house, and sure, it's still at least $100K under water, but it's SO MUCH nicer.  I figure, if we're stuck here, we might as well like it as much as possible.  

And we do.

All's well that ends well.

(These pics don't really do justice to the improvement over the prior condition, but trust me...)