beware reading whiplash

One thing I learned this summer is that going from reading a master artist at the top of his game writing beautiful, sparing, tragic novels to a new author's first book road novel (definitely not the destination but the journey and all the stories you hear along the way) can cause a severe case of reading whiplash.  It was like watching an Olympic-caliber swimmer slicing cleanly through the water and then having the water turned into, I don't know, gelatin or something.  It was SUCH A SLOG.  But the first author does not have any new books for me to read, and I needed to move on to something . . .

Home Anniversary 8: the boring bedroom

The bedroom is boring.  It has to be because I am allergic to all the things.  I was told my allergies would improve if I could keep the bedroom free of books and dust.  The walls are free of all decorations other than a profusion of ugly nail holes (couldn't afford to also paint it after all the other allergy-proofing).  No furniture, no books, no carpet.

In theory, you sleep better if your room is an empty cave, cool and dark, non-distracting, so there are blackout curtains that don't do a great job, not only because of the cheap-unsafe-apartment-dryer-melting injuries they sustained, but also because I don't have the heart to tape them down on all sides.  It's still pretty cave-like, though, because one of the DIY Demons of Doom who previously inhabited this house added an okay-looking but totally non-functional ceiling light (it's wired for a fan, so it doesn't work with just a light), so I have an ancient, 40-watt desk lamp in one corner doing room-lighting/dimming duties.  It shines up onto the random plant hook on the ceiling where I have placed a single wonderfully gaudy Christmas ornament.

I don't even have a comforter or quilt because it's hard to wash those as often as the allergists recommend.  All totally boring, as it should be for improved health.  But my sheets are a beautiful color between turquoise and jade because there should be something beautiful in every room.  Even the dark ones you can't really see into.  Extra credit if the beauty is machine washable or hypoallergenic.

Home 7: special bathroom fan edition

Of course the bathroom fan began making horrifying noises very soon.  I did some research to see if it would be cheaper to pay for it to get replaced than to use the Home Warranty Company of Doom (another cursed gift brought to me by my scummy seller).  I am still giggling because never have I seen the word noxious so frequently in such a short time.  The thing that confuses me is why it is so important for people to have fans that are quiet.  Is this a rich people thing?  Have a fan so quiet no one knows you have a fan but everyone knows when you might like a louder fan?  I mean, pardon my crudeness, but isn't at least part of the point of a bathroom fan sort of like the point of those fancy Japanese toilets that have sounds you can turn on at particular times when you want to cover other sounds?  I'm just wondering.  Anyway, they replaced the fan that sounded like souls being dragged to torment in hell with one that was louder but induced fewer nightmares, and that was the only home warranty call that did not suck out part of my soul and add years to my life.  Huzzah.

Home Anniversary 6: The Master Bath closet

I'm going to move around to the back of the house now because, frankly, I want to get it out of the way.  "The Master Bath" sounds all elegant and posh, but it's the size of a closet.  (Actually, that's a lie because the closet next to it is bigger.)  It has a tiny shower, a trendy pedestal sink, and a toilet with one of those fun slow-mo-close lids.

One of the first things I got fixed was the toilet, which was not actually attached to the floor.  My inspector and I considered this a problem, but the seller didn't seem to.  My sister and I got a huge kick out of the fact that the plumber just put the toilet on the bedroom floor while he did plumber things to get it reattached.  We took pictures because it's kind of hilarious.

There was also no storage space in the mirror; it was a fake.  As a result, there is basically no storage space to make the whole bathroom actually functional except under the ridiculous sink.

The sink is one of those big glass bowls that is maybe still a thing in bathroom design, and I was initially not a fan.  I am still not a fan of its functionalness, but there is one thing that makes me very happy about it.  When I am stumbling around clumsily as usual, and I whack or knock something into the sink, it rings out this pure, clear sound like a prayer bell.  It's beautiful.  And frequent.  Who knew clumsiness could make beauty along with bruises and broken bottles?