Our house was built in the 30s and has stone walls. It’s mostly indestructible.
Now, once upon a time, probably in the 70s when lots of bad choices were being made, someone enclosed the porch on our little house. So, we’ve got this cute 30s house with a rotten enclosed porch that brings a certain “Ozarkian Meth House” flair to our home.
My Guy and I are on a quest to open up the porch. We got a bid from a contractor.
That bid was $18,000. Ha! Hahahahaha! Also? Ha!
So, we’re doing the work ourselves. This weekend, our initial foray into Project: No More Shitty Porch was sandblasting the interior walls of the still-enclosed porch.
See, in addition to the poor decisions about enclosing the porch, the former owners of our house also painted the stone walls enclosed by said porch. That paint needs to go so that when we take down the walls, our house isn’t multicolored.
Powerwashing will not rid limestone of paint. No. You gotta rent a sandblaster for that business. The sandblasting bucket thing is only $50, but you also need 4 different kinds of hoses, protective gear, a respirator, and a giant generator that you pull behind your truck. Oh, and you have to drive across town to buy a very special kind of sand.
All told, it was about $500.
And it didn’t work. And about 3 hours into messing with it, we figured out that My Guy had food poisoning.
He sprawled across the couch, moaning and refusing to drink water. I put away all the hoses and tried to make peace with the fact that our house was covered in sand and tarps and looked even worse than usual. I’m still trying to figure out: Can I shopvac the sand out of our yard?
My Guy moaned some more. Finally, he crawled upstairs to our bedroom, where he was prepared to spend his end days.
I got him a cold washcloth for his face. We were able to laugh a little bit about the weird turn of our day – we were out $500, he might die, and, as he so eloquently stated, “No fart can be trusted.”
We were trying to be positive about the whole situation. Really, we were.
And then? Then, Lil’ Frankfurter peed on the bed.
It was on my side.
My Guy could not even begin to face getting off the bed. He asked me, “Can you just live with it?” He pleaded with his eyes – mostly because every other body part hurt.
No, no I could not live with it. But I could work magic, stripping and then remaking the bed with my husband still in it. Martha Stewart got nothin’ on me.
Finally, after cleaning and fetching Pepto and washing some of the sand off my face, I fell into bed, only to be confronted by a husband in the middle of said bed, sweating and moaning.
At least it wasn’t dog pee.