The ongoing saga of the house

We’d just paid the deposit and signed the contract on our kitchen renovation, with work scheduled to begin in late May, when the contractor sent me an email. “We’ve had an opening and our next client wants to delay construction until June. How do you feel about starting on Monday?”

Um, Monday? Five days hence Monday, you mean? I looked up at the broken cupboards full of stuff that would need to be packed away, the clutter in the living room that would need to be removed to make way for a temporary kitchen, the dining room teeming with art projects and various paperwork that would need to be filed or recycled, and tried to wrap my head around the idea of having no kitchen to make meals or clean dishes for three to four weeks starting in five days. We’d have one weekend to finalize the last of the design plan (we need to pick flooring, a faucet, paint colour, counters and handles for the drawers and cupboards), pack the kitchen cupboards and drawers, empty most of the dining room, clear space in the garage for the delivery of the new cupboards, make a temporary kitchen, and plan a minimum of a week’s worth of no-stove meals.

“Sure,” I replied, because I have no sense of self preservation whatsoever. Carpe that diem, right?

We met with the contractor on Saturday to do a crash session on the remaining details: floors, counters, paint, faucet, and drawer and cupboard pulls. In other words, all the things that I thought were inconsequential. “I am more concerned with the fact of having a floor than what it looks like,” I told the contractor the last day we met to sign the contract. The contractor, who has gotten to know us fairly well by now, pointed at Beloved and said, “So, you’re coming with me to the tile store?” Meh, floors. Whatever.

To my surprise, though, picking out these finishing touches made me almost as excited as the idea of my coveted pot drawers. Since we are building on exactly the same footprint, with no new appliances, and on a very tight budget, I was really beginning to feel like the new kitchen might not be tens of thousands of dollars better than the old kitchen. Then I found out you can get ceramic tile floor that looks like knotty pine, and vintagey-cool drawer pulls that look like they might have come out of an old library. I am really happy now that I don’t have to wait for months to see it all come together, because for the first time I’m feeling really excited about the renovation, instead of just enduring it and grumbling about the cost.

Having said that, I am not looking forward to the next few weeks without a kitchen. We have our BBQ, which has a side burner for pots that I’ve never actually used but I checked and still works. We’ll have the microwave, although it will be displaced from its usual perch above the oven. And we’ll just roll the fridge into the dining room for the duration, so it will be accessible and functioning. I’ve picked up some big plastic bins to store food like cereal and snacks that might smell appealing to the dog, and I invested in a whackload of compostable paper plates. I think it is the dishwasher that we will miss most of all, and I am trying to decide whether washing dishes will work better in the (tiny) bathroom sink or the (awkwardly positioned and not incredibly clean) basement laundry sink or the bathtub is the least painful option.

Saturday and Sunday were a marathon of sorting and packing and discarding and wondering why the heck we have so many packages of yeast in the cupboard, and cursing the multitude of snack bags with less than six pretzels in each. I mostly stayed true to my inner environmentalist, filling the compost and cardboard recycling bins to capacity, but by late in the day Sunday I had abandoned any pretense of careful sorting and packing and was simply cramming stuff into any nearby container with capacity. And I swore to myself that we will never, ever move, because just packing the kitchen was enough to last me another decade.

Here’s the empty kitchen on Sunday evening, waiting for the destruction crew to arrive at 7 am on Monday morning. Before:

Photo 2016-05-01, 6 49 30 PM

After a full day of packing, trying to cook dinner on Sunday night in an empty kitchen was a bit of a disaster. You don’t realize how much muscle memory is involved in a familiar meal until you try to cook it when none of the tools or ingredients are where they are supposed to be! I can’t tell you how many times I opened a drawer or cupboard to find it empty – not unlike when the power goes out and you walk from room to room automatically hitting light switches and thinking “okay, I’ll watch TV – no wait, I’ll vacuum, no wait, I’ll….” Not to even mention the fun of meal planning for dinners that do not require a stove or much clean-up to execute. I’m seeing a lot of takeout and a lot of living room picnics in our future!

So tell me, bloggy peeps, what’s your favourite no-cook meal?


One of the boys has a peculiar but charming personality quirk: he abhors making decisions. Not only is he stressed by big decisions, but he actively avoids making even such minor decisions as milk or water with dinner. In general, he would prefer to be served with a decision made than to take an active role in decision-making.

I am beginning to think this might be a latent personality quirk he inherited from me as I die a death of a thousand paper cuts in the endless number of decisions involved in our pending kitchen renovation. From the fundamental “should we or should we not renovate the kitchen” to the minutiae of 3/8″ difference in sink depth, I am feeling completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of options at every turn.

We’ve narrowed down the options somewhat. We’re going with Ikea’s SEKTION design (it’s specified in some sort of international treaty that we need to capitalize Ikea product names, right?) sitting in pretty much the exact footprint of the existing kitchen, minimizing both cost and trauma to the change-averse members of the family. We’ve had a kitchen reno in our sights since we moved in almost six years ago, if for no other reason than to replace the spectacular bio-hazard that is the 1960s vintage faux brick backsplash wall behind the oven, and to do something with the gaping hole left when we had to tear out the over-fridge cabinets to accommodate our monstrosity of a fridge. (I have never in six years regretted investing in the biggest fridge we could afford at the time.) And over the years we’ve lost three full cupboard doors, with two more hanging at drunken angles, the brace holding the sink up has snapped, and the laminate on the counter has started to peel up. I’m pretty sure the previous homeowner invested just enough in upgrading the kitchen to last the length of the building inspection and not much more. TL;DR: we have some maintenance issues to address.

And, I have a wildly covetous desire for pot drawers. I swear, the real reason we are spending tens of thousands of dollars on this kitchen renovation is so I no longer have to lose my ever-loving mind every time I shift my way through eight nested stacks of pots and colanders because I am reaching for a pot lid or I send a precariously stacked Jenga game of plastic sandwich containers crashing across the kitchen floor in my search for the salad spinner.



So, a record of decisions made to this point: yes, we will renovate the kitchen. We will renovate the kitchen this year. We talked to the bank and worked out a budget, over which I choked and balked and raged and finally made an uneasy sort of peace. (Seriously, people spend HOW MUCH on kitchen renovations?! I spoke to more than one company that wouldn’t take on our project because it was just too small.) We decided on a white-on-white colour scheme in a country-modern, clean and simple style. We decided to build Ikea components into the existing footprint and to retain our original appliances. And we decided to put in a pot drawer every time the option became available.

Phew, that was a LOT of decisions. So, we’re done now, right? Someone will come over and wave a magic wand and we can has kitchen?


I think I’m probably nearing 20 hours invested on the Ikea website and with the Kitchen Planner, alternately known as The Most Useless and Aggravating Piece of Software on the Internet(TM). (Oops, there goes the potential Ikea sponsorship.) It actually works beautifully in store, and is a fascinating tool — if you can get it to load. The Ikea associate to whom I kvetched said it may have been because I was trying to run it on a MacBook, but I find it just as cantankerous and difficult to load on the boys’ PC. Every now and then I hit my kitchen-designing stride and started to have delusions about actually executing at least the design portion of the project ourselves, and then we hit a snag like a 38″ footprint for a 36″ cabinet, or confusion over MAXIMARA versus FORVARA, or the idea of not just finding and engaging but managing multiple subcontractors comes up, and we realize that we are in way, WAY over our depth. And also, I remember that I am pretty much completely lacking in mechanical aptitude, and the ability to assemble an Ikea wall unit over 16 hours does not make me a master cabinetmaker.

So, we’ve thrown in the (FRΓ„JEN) towel and have contracted the job out. Oh joy, there are MOAR DECISIONS. Finding someone to do the job has been painful. You don’t need to know the details, but suffice to say the story is long. We’ve decided to go all in, with a company that will design, purchase, manage and install the entire kitchen from start to finish. It will be four times the price than if we did it ourselves, but we will have an actual kitchen at the end of the process, which is a dubious outcome if we took on the project ourselves. And neither Beloved nor I will be facing felony charges for assault on a FINTORP.

All this to say, strap yourselves in and get ready for the next great bloggy series, “Remember that time DaniGirl lost her everloving shit over the kitchen reno?” Good times indeed.

Today’s question, my bloggy pretties, is about exhaust hoods. (There is a delicious irony in me reaching the breaking “exhaust” point and finally moving to crowdsource over an “exhaust” hood, yes?) We are not currently equipped to vent our kitchen exhaust outside, and while I don’t see it as being an insurmountable task, I am leery about punching a hole in the building envelope for any reason. Also, truthfully? I’d love to trim that item from the budget. I’m quite sure that our existing microwave/exhaust hood combo does nothing more than coat my forehead in aerosolized food particulate, but I am still leaning on investing in a recirculating new hood rather than upgrading to a ducted venting one. (And eep, did you know you were supposed to clean those filters? Did I mention six years? *cringe*)

Share your vast knowledge on the subject of range hoods, will you? Save me at least this one decision from the otherwise random and capricious impulses that have governed most of the key decisions to date!


It was almost three years ago that we first saw this house. I joke now (in that joking sort of way that has more than a nugget of truth in it) that there was a spectacular porch that I adored, an amazing treehouse that enchanted Tristan from first sight, and oh yes, a very nice house in between them. About two years before that, Tristan had confided to his Granny that the dearest wish of his wee heart was a treehouse of his own.

The treehouse was in rough shape when we inherited it. The rope ladder was a little tough for Simon and impossible for then two-year-old Lucas to climb. In fact, I’m pretty Lucas never actually set foot in the treehouse. I was up there a few times, but it didn’t feel terribly safe to me. It was made of plyboard and had begun to cant at an awkward angle. For the first year or so, we encouraged the kids to go up in it only one or two kids at a time, but by last summer it was clearly not safe enough for even one 50 lbs kid, and we banned them from climbing into it entirely when the plyboard floor began to rot through.

Dawn on the first day of spring

It’s a sort of a kid paradise in the backyard, with an enormous play structure, a swinging rope and a tire swing, which took away the sting from a treehouse you could see but not use. But this spring we noticed the playstructure too had drifted away from “weathered” and toward “rotting” in more places than one. Last year we replaced the swing set portion, but it was clear that the rest of it was deteriorating quickly. Beloved and I decided to act on our idle year-old plan of getting a quote from someone to get them fixed up.

A friend of a friend, and conveniently someone from our local school community, came out in June and took a look at the treehouse and playstructure with an eye to rehabilitating one or the other. The prognosis was grim. Neither could be fixed – they’d have to be razed and rebuilt. The playstructure would have probably come in around $5k to $6k to replicate (have you seen the insane prices on these things??) and about a fifth of that to rebuild the treehouse.

If you follow me on any other social media, you might have seen some vaguebooking status updates as Beloved and I debated the merits of trying to do the job ourselves or hire a competent professional. For perhaps the 300th time since we moved into this house of love and ongoing challenges, I wished Beloved or I were handy folk. Alas, no hero stepped forth to rescue us from our treehouse dilemma (hey, sometimes you just gotta ask!) and Beloved and I were left to our own devices. I’m pretty sure we *could* have adapted the plan put together by the contractor and built something that vaguely resembled a treehouse, but the more I thought of my children, and the neighbourhood children, to say nothing of the children I am occasionally paid to photograph, being suspended five feet off the ground on something Beloved and I built? Let’s just say I lost a little bit of sleep over this one. And it seemed like a crappy thing to do, accepting a quote and then filching the plan. But oh how I agonized over it all.

The day we finally decided that we’d rather invest in the treehouse than in some of the other home repair jobs that also desperately need some attention (and money!) around the house, I actually cried a little bit. I didn’t realize until we decided to go ahead with the project how badly I wanted to do this for the boys. There’s not much of a playground culture here in Manotick, and I love the idea of having the kind of yard where neighbourhood kids can play. And Tristan is 11 years old now – his treehouse years will soon be behind him. (Although Beloved said something about future girlfriends and the treehouse which I will judiciously choose to ignore.) I imagined it as a lure away from those infernal screens they all adore – but wouldn’t you know it, the household wifi reaches all the way to the treehouse! Mostly, though, I just wanted a safe place for them to play, to climb and invent and adventure and be boys.

With a little help from Mother Nature (thank you for two dry days in a row!) and our amazing treehouse building husband-and-wife team, this happened before our very eyes:

New treehouse

New treehouse-2

And apparently it’s good for kids of all sizes:

New treehouse-3

We love it. LOVE it! It’s safe and built with clear attention to detail, it’s big enough to support a handful of kids, it’s easy for even wee Lucas to get up and down by himself, and I can conveniently see what shenanigans might be going on through the rails. πŸ˜‰ We decided to go with independent supports so we didn’t have to rely on the weed maple for structural integrity. I can imagine things like a rod for puppet-theatre curtains on the underside or perhaps a little clubhouse with benches — after all, I’m not averse to building my handy skills on things that are not suspended five feet off the ground! The only downside is that I lost access to a favourite tree limb for posing families during porch portraits but can imagine a whole new world of possibilities for my outdoor “studio” now.

After what seems like endless dithering and angst, I can only wonder why we didn’t do this sooner. Best! Treehouse! Ever!!


It went something like this…

** ring ring **


Hey Universe, it’s DaniGirl calling!

DaniGirl! Always a pleasure to hear from you, friend. What’s new?

Ha, as if you don’t know. Universe, you are a mischevious scamp!

Well, that’s true enough, but what in particular insipres you to say so?

You’re making me a little crazy with the good-news bad-news game you play. Couldn’t we just skip the stress of things falling apart and then things falling in to place to make them okay again and just stay on an even keel for a while? Do we have to do this every time?

Oh, I get it. You’re ticked off about the porch!

Damn right I’m ticked off about the porch. More like devestated – I moped for days when I found out that we’d have to tear up the porch and the garden in front of the house to replace the seeping sewage pipe that runs from the house to the septic tank.

Well, you could look on the bright side. A seeping sewage pipe is a lot easier to deal with than, say, a burst sewage pipe spewing unpleasantness all over your basement.

I know, I know! I am supremely grateful for that. And I’ve found what I hope is a decent contractor who will not only carefully disassemble the porch and dig up the pipe so the plumbers can come and replace it, but he’ll then reassemble the porch and give it the paint job that I’m now really glad we didn’t end up giving it in April like we’d planned.

See, that’s all good news!

But Universe — it’s the porch! When we first fell in love with the house, it was because there was an amazing treehouse in the back and this spectacular porch in the front, and hey lookit that, a really nice house sandwiched in between them. And now the treehouse floor is rotting and the porch — the porch! — needs to be torn up. And as if all that weren’t enough, you know I use the porch as my photo studio. I’m pretty sure nobody ever had to tear up Karsh’s photo studio to replace a damn poop pipe!

Now now, DaniGirl, don’t get yourself into a froth. You seem quite confident that your new contractor friend will put the porch right back together again, and with a fresh coat of paint to boot! The garden will grow back – it’s all good! And speaking of photos, didn’t you like that little gift I sent you under the guise of your monthly sales statement from Getty Images?

Erm, ya, I did kind of cry when I opened my sales statement this month and saw that it was four figures. I can’t believe some ad agency in the UK paid more than $4500 to use this photo of Beloved and Lucas in their advertising campaign. The part about potential use on a billboard has us all snickering. So that does help cover more than half the cost of the poop pipe repair and unexpected porch renovation. Um, thanks for that!

43:365 Beloved and Lucas playing Angry Birds

Watching your reaction was more than worth it, DaniGirl. You were pretty funny, sitting in the parking lot of the boys’ school, bawling your eyes out as you read the statement on your iPhone!

Ya well, you kind of caught me off guard with that one. I made more from the sale of that one photo than I have with the rest of my Getty sales combined! So, um, Universe, at the risk of sounding ungrateful….

Yes, DaniGirl?

Um, would it be possible to ask for one more thing? I’m not trying to be greedy, but… well, you remember when we replaced the furnace in December?

Yes, that was another big bill you paid out this year.

Indeed. I swear, we are rebuilding this house one disaster at a time. It’s like Steve Austin: “We can rebuild it… we have the technology.” Ahem, anyway, remember how the furnace guys found the coil for the air conditioner so full of dog hair that they said they couldn’t clean it, they’d have to replace it? And if they did that, they’d pretty much just have to replace the entire A/C unit? And we looked at the $5K we’d just forked out for the furnace and balked at the idea of spending another $3K on the spot to get a new A/C unit?

Yes, I remember all that. Seemed like a good financial choice at the time.

Ya, we thought so, too. It seemed like a very prudent plan to save a few bucks and do without A/C — in the winter time. Universe, it was bloody unbearable hot in the house yesterday. So if you don’t mind, could you keep the temps down to a nice mild 30C or so for the summer? I don’t mind it hot, but 42C in the humidex is a little much. Seriously, Ottawa was the hottest spot in the whole damn province yesterday!

Hmmm, I’ll see what I can do, DaniGirl.

Or, yanno, if you can’t do that, maybe another one or two of those jaw-dropping statements from Getty? Just, yanno, until we get the house issues under control again? Oh, and please, for the love of all things holy, could you please send a little extra protective vibe when they replace the poop pipe? I can handle the repair to the sewage pipe, but I still live in fear that something bad (and expensive) will happen to that septic tank. Replacing the septic tank would make the poop pipe repairs seem like, well, a drop in a very unpleasant bucket.

I’ll let you know, DaniGirl. You just keep taking those photographs!

Oh I will, Universe. You know I couldn’t stop now even if I wanted. Take care of yourself!

Always a pleasure to hear from you. Until next time, DaniGirl…


I‘m at work, and calling Beloved to arrange for a ride home because I’m pretty much stranded. I’ve just dropped the car off for servicing and to have the winter tires installed and am still feeling crusty about the fact that apparently my dealership will drop you off in a courtesy shuttle but not pick you up. But, they don’t bother to mention this fact until you’re actually in the shuttle. Or at least, that’s how it played out for me. So I’m calling Beloved to see if he can rearrange his afternoon and pick me up downtown, drop me off at the dealer at the south end of Bank, then hustle on over to Manotick to pick up the boys from school. Not happy.

He mentions he’s feeling dizzy, and says Tristan complained of the same. “And you mentioned you’d been feeling dizzy last night,” he says. I kind of shrug, but my mind skims back another day and I think, “Hmmm, I turned on the furnace on Tuesday before bed. And yesterday I was feeling a bit dizzy. And today, they’re feeling dizzy.” I don’t much like all those coincidences, but I am still smarting from the embarrassment of having the fire department show up one fine morning almost a year ago to help us replace the batteries in our CO detector.

More to appease Beloved than out of any sense of urgency, I agree to call Enbridge. And I suggest that he turn off the furnace. It’s cool, but not freezing outside. Better safe than sorry, right? So I find the the Enbridge site and a toll free number. The first option in the voice mail tree asks me if this is an emergency or not. I’m about to confirm “not” when they mention something about carbon dioxide. I waffle for a second, then press the zero to be put into the emergency queue, cringing. The operator comes on and already I’m hedging, explaining that it’s not really an emergency but since I have you on the line, I have a question… and I try to schedule an appointment for maybe this afternoon, or maybe tomorrow?

The operator will have none of that. She needs to dispatch someone immediately if they take my call. Ugh. Beloved is half way to Gatineau by now on his way to a meeting, and I’m friggin’ stranded downtown. I tell her I’ll call back. And I immediately dial my sweet, wonderful, reliable parents. Of course they’re willing to help, and within 30 minutes my dad is at the house, waiting on the porch. When I call Enbridge back, they dispatch someone right away and tell me all the occupants of the house should see a doctor right away. I cringe again. I am almost positive this will be another false alarm. I am both relieved and mortified that my father will bear the brunt of this encounter.

Time passes. I wonder if Enbridge has a false alarm blacklist, and if they’ll stop taking my calls after this. I wonder if I’ll be charged for this second call within a year. I cringe some more. I call Beloved to let him in on my frenzy of organizing and dispatching, and he mentions he’s still feeling a little dizzy and I cringe some more. If he’s out in the fresh air and feeling off, clearly we’ve misread the situation.

Time passes. My dad finally calls. There were two gas leaks.

I close my eyes and lose track of what he is saying for a minute. Two? Gas? Leaks? At my house? Where my babies were sleeping? Where I had a fire in the fireplace the day before I turned on the furnace? What if I’d gotten around to having one yesterday? What if I’d used the oven or stove instead of calling for pizza yesterday? What if, what if, what if… and I realize I have to pay attention because what my dad is trying to tell me is Very Important Information, but all I can hear are the sounds of sirens that did not wail.

I’ve learned enough so far this morning that my brain has stopped accepting new information. In no particular order, I’ve learned:

  • it really is better safe than sorry.
  • always make sure you have a ride home booked BEFORE you leave your car at the dealership.
  • parents are a gift from God.
  • it’s possible to age 10 years in a three-minute conversation.
  • twenty-year-old furnaces are not to be relied upon.
  • parents are a gift from God. I know I mentioned that one already. It bears repeating.

I’m left to wonder why our CO detector didn’t go off. Clearly, we need to invest and upgrade here.

And finally, this is my message to you. If you’re ever worried about something like this, make the call. And if it’s a false alarm and happens the next day, make the call again.

I think I need to go sit under my desk for a while.


I like cutting the grass. It’s a reasonably mindless chore that takes physical but not mental effort, and you can do it outside. When you’re cutting the grass, it’s just you and the lawnmower and the great outdoors, and nobody is yanking on your leg asking for a cookie or to wipe their bum.

We moved in to the new house in mid-October last year. I’d ordinarily mow the lawn up until November on a every-week-or-three basis, but with the move craziness and 400 metric tonnes of leaves to rake up, cutting the grass was simply not much of a priority. Through the winter, I’d ponder the lawn, wondering how long it might take to cut it (the guy we bought from said an hour for the front and an hour for the back, but he’s deceived us on enough things that I wasn’t willing to take his word for it) and looking forward to it with a bit of a sense of adventure. Don’t laugh now, it only gets worse from here.

As it rained and rained and rained through April and May, the grass grew unfettered, and I played with my computer researching cordless versus electric versus gas mowers. I started out thinking we would invest in a cordless, but the more I read about them the more they seemed designed for the postage-stamp-sized suburban lawn we’d left behind in Barrhaven, not the 1/2 acre of wilderness that comprises the lot in Manotick.

129:365 Dewy [Explored]

By the time we had a three-hour interval with no rain, I still hadn’t made up my mind about which kind of lawnmower we needed to acquire (and was still balking at the $500+ price tag for a cordless mower) so I hauled out our old electric. The 50 foot cord wasn’t going to come close to giving us full coverage, but my dad scrounged up a manky old cord from his collection and brought it over for us. It had only a few places where the insulation had been worn through to expose the wires inside, and since it was a good 100′ or more, I deemed it only moderately unsafe and thus entirely good enough.

Remember last Thursday, that day when right around 4 pm Mother Nature said, “Oh, you want summer? Here you go!” and turned up the heat and the sunshine? Yeah, that day got me all excited, so right after work/school I hauled out the manky cord and the electric mower with blades that hadn’t been sharpened since we got it five years ago and set to work. Except the manky cord had this weird coupling that didn’t fit into the protected end of the lawnmower cord, so I had to get out the 50 foot cord and attach it to the lawnmower, but then attach the other end to the manky cord so I could mow beyond two rows in front of the porch, and while there was a feather of concern about the elevated risk of electrocution it was quashed by the anvil of stubborn determination to mow the goddamn lawn before it reached the height of my knees.

And so, abused lawnmower tethered to the house by not one but two manky cords, I gripped the dead man switch and pressed the button and off I rumbled down the first row. Little did I know that my right hand would eventually atrophy into a hideous claw around that dead man switch. But I’m getting ahead of myself and really, we’ve only barely begun. (Wait, don’t go, there’s more!)

So the first row went okay, and the second, but as I moved away from the garden in front of the porch and toward the road, the grass got thicker, and thicker, and thicker, and the lawnmower started complaining. Despite the fact that my rows had narrowed from nearly the width of the lawnmower to half the width of the lawnmower to the width of the inside wheel of the lawnmower, its little engine chuffed said, “Please, could you go a little slower? I’m having a spot of difficulty in keeping up.” So I slowed my pace a bit, and a bit more, and a bit more, until I was moving at a pace that was only a little bit slower than continental drift, but I still had to stop every row or so when the lawnmower choked up completely.

The first time it happened, I carefully unplugged the cord (Elmer the Safety Elephant says ‘Safety First!’), turned the lawnmower over, and disgorged three bales’ worth of grass from its guts, then carefully uprighted it and plugged it back in. With each subsequent time it happened, I took less and less care, until I was flipping the damn thing over like a coin, cramming a stick into its inner workings before the blades had even come to rest.

Did I mention the broken handle on the mower? We lost a bolt maybe a year or so ago, and so while the handle holds together mostly pretty well, it has the alarming habit of collapsing randomly, just when you’re not expecting it to.

And so it went, for about half an hour, until I got to *insert ominous music here* — the culvert.

I’m such a suburbanite, I’m not even entirely sure that culvert is the right word. I suppose “drainage ditch” is another good term for it. In the winter months, I thought it was grand when it provided the boys with our own private tobogganing hill:

4:365 Frontyard sledding

In summer months, however, it turns into a yawing green canyon of death. I tried running the mower the length of it, but came precariously close to tumbling over sideways when the slope approached a near vertical. Eventually I had to resort to hunkering down a few steps down from the apex and easing the lawnmower down to the bottom of the ditch, then yanking it back up again as I scrambled to keep my footing and clamber back to the top of the slope, all while maintaining a death-grip on the dead man switch with one hand and frantically swiping the manky cord out of my way with the other. I only slipped and fell once, but I did let the mower tumble into the ditch a few times when gravity had the upper hand and I needed to sacrifice the mower’s momentum to save my own. And there’s a slight chance that I may have flung it into the ditch in exasperation, just once or twice.

It was, to say the least, not pretty. What had seemed like a glorious early summer day had quickly deteriorated into a humid inferno. The only thing thicker than the grass were the mosquito swarms, but the grass was SO thick at the bottom of the ditch that I had to contort the (shifty) handle down flat to the ground beneath my feet (while trying not to lose my balance on the slope and fall ass-over-teakettle into the ditch) so I could give the blades a bit of air so they’d keep turning. And I worked my way methodically up and down that godforsaken ditch that way, cursing lawns and lawnmowers and manky cords and broken handles and mosquito and the sweat running into my eyes in increasingly colourful language. What knocking a tree into the neighbour’s pool during a windstorm did for my introduction to the back neighbours was nothing to the impression I must have made on the front neighbours during the debacle that was my first attempt to cut the lawn.

Eventually, I had to stop as I had a meeting scheduled with a new caregiver (a story to be told another day) but Beloved had wisely ordered pizza and fed the kids as I’d cut and cursed the grass. After two hours of sweaty labour, I’d mowed only two-thirds of the front lawn. Jesus wept, and so did I.

I won’t bore you with the sweaty details of the subsequent session of lawnmowing that weekend. Here’s the highlights: I started cutting just after lunch on Saturday afternoon, picking up where I left off (and falling into a wretched heap when I realized that the grass had grown enough to need recutting in just TWO DAYS) and finishing just before dinner. By the time I was rolling through the last few rows in the back yard, I felt like a marathoner crossing the finish line. I was shaky and weepy and clean out of curses. It had taken me FIVE hours over two days to cut the whole lawn.

I spent the evening on Saturday nursing my aching biceps and back and trying to massage some feeling into the hand that had permanently taken on the shape of the dead man switch on the lawnmower handle, and researching new electric lawnmowers. I’m still afraid of gas mowers and we can’t afford a lawn tractor. I read that a cordless mower holds a charge for 30 – 45 minutes at a go and guffawed; surely the environmental and financial impact of a shredded cord or two each year is considerably better than that of the five or six lawnmower batteries we’d need to get the job done.

Personally, I’m thinking the best solution is a goat. Beloved expressly forbade me from raising chickens, but he never once said I couldn’t buy a goat…


In which she discusses windstorms with the Universe

29 April 2011 Postcards from Manotick

It went something like this: *ring ring* Hello? Hey, Universe. It’s DaniGirl. DaniGirl! Always a pleasure to hear from you. How are you enjoying your first spring in the new house? Oh, it’s been gorgeous. There’s daffodils and crocuses, the boys love playing in the yard, and the porch is beyond awesome. I’m so happy […]

6 comments Read the full article β†’

In which being off the city water system suddenly became a very good thing

27 April 2011 Postcards from Manotick

Wow, I’m still in shock over the news today of a summer-long outdoor water ban for Barrhaven, Riverside South and Manotick. According to the news so far, the ban will prohibit not just lawn-watering and car-washing, but sprinklers and kiddie pools, too. OTTAWA β€” The City of Ottawa is immediately banning on all outdoor water […]

7 comments Read the full article β†’

In which it occurs to her that the garden is very much larger than she realized

25 April 2011 The ongoing saga of the house

I‘ve been daydreaming of putting in a lovely vegetable garden since the day we first saw this house last August. The yard is so huge, there’s tonnes of room for it. You know what else is huge? The garden. I’m thinking that I may want to try keeping up with the existing garden for a […]

5 comments Read the full article β†’

Oh really? She can blog about something other than pictures??

23 February 2011 The ongoing saga of the house

Each time I even think about writing a new blog post, a voice in my head says, “You’ve really got to blog about something other than photography. You may be obsessed, but you’re going to bore them to tears. For the love of all things holy, is there nothing else in your head except photo […]

8 comments Read the full article β†’