Adventures in House Flipping and Multiple Reasons Why You Shouldn't Let Your Husband Watch Home Improvement Shows Part III.

Spiders.

Not just any spiders, cannibalistic spiders that are as big as a mouse living in the crawl space under my house.

I suppose I should probably explain a couple of things about me. I’m an Army woman, hard core, tough as nails. I’ve crawled through the mud, trained with men and held my own. But when you strip off all the layers of mud and camo, underneath it is all girl. That being said, I like perfume, dressing up, wearing heels, and along with being female, I have female fears. Have I ever told you the one thing I'm terrified of?

Snakes—no I think they're cute.

Mice—nasty—but no.

Men in net shirts and denim cut-offs—okay you got me there, but that should put the fear of god into any woman. Bonus terror points for back hair.

NO, my greatest fear by far and with gooooood reason—spiders. You get one near me and I'll have a heart attack. You see, it started as a child when I got one of those great big white, marshmallow-bodied, barn spiders caught in my hair. It escalated when I was in the Army, on a training exercise and was bitten all over my face by a spider. My eyes swelled shut, I couldn’t open them and I could barely breathe. They had to rush me back to post before my throat closed up. So no, I don’t like them.

Guess who was in the crawl space laying down ant poison? Yeah. All was going fine. I’d sucked it up and braved the underside of the house. I mean, how bad could it be? My husband, kids, even his 80 year old grandfather had been under there all week. So when my husband told me he really could use my help putting the ant poison down, I figured, why not. Nobody has said anything about stuff crawling around under there. I donned a pair of jeans, leather work gloves and a cap. Looking like a true house-flipping professional, I sucked in a deep breath and crawled into the darkness. Flashlight in hand, I worked my way along the foundation until I was about three quarters of the way back, about 80 feet, when I shined my flashlight on this support beam connected to the sill, looking for ants, something scurried along it. Of course I think it's a mouse. I follow the critter’s path with my ray of light. To my horror I discover it’s not a mouse, a rat, or anything of the mammal persuasion. Oh, no it would have to be the one thing that makes the blood in my veins run cold and it was staring at me.

A great big hairy brown spider. Of course like an idiot, I sat there on my hands and knees, paralyzed with fear, watching it. Soon it was joined by a friend, not quite as big as a silver dollar. Then another about the size of a quarter. The smaller spider crawled over to the biggest one and when it touched its hairy brown legs, the gianourmous spider sprang, bit it and started to wrap it in silk. What came next was the makings of a horror movie, it started to eat it. Barely able to keep breakfast down, I decided I couldn’t allow it to remain under my house. After all, it might find a way to enter the domain above and that was not acceptable. So like a moron, I took this board and squashed it. Green goo squirted out its back end, and then the damn thing proceeded to crawl away. One more time, but with greater force. I smacked it as hard as I could, vibrating the beam.

In that moment, I learned a valuable lesson. Spiders travel in packs. Really, really, big packs. I’m not kidding. Great big and hairy wasn't alone. Two hundred of his friends took that moment to jump from the beam like living popcorn.

How fast do you think one woman can crawl on her hands and knees from under a house? I think I set a record and I'm sure my scream loosened a few floorboards. Never, never again. I'm tossing an insecticide bomb under there. I'm traumatized, scarred for life. And that bastard of a husband knew they were under there when he sent me. “Oh let’s send the wife under there, ought to be good for a couple of chuckles. Har, har.” We’ll see how he likes it when I take the scissors to all his underwear. See, I’m a girl, I like lacy clothes, looking pretty, I’m scared of spiders and among other things, I can be vindictive. Real vindictive.

Part II. Adventures in House-Flipping and Multiple Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Let Your Husband Watch Home Improvement Shows.

Day 12: Today was all about ripping out walls and ceilings, gutting the monster where it sits. Gone are the boxes of mouse poop, musty magazines and discarded clothing. Nothing but walls and ceilings. My husband has decided I will be of more use at our house for the time being. What am I talking about? I know, I know. He really needed me down there. Yes and no. Things are getting a bit more complicated. My husband gathered the family earlier this week to lay the news on us. We’re not just flipping it now; we’re going to be moving in when we’re done.

So what’s all this mean? Well... It means for one, I’ve got not only one house to fix up, but two. My mission, should I chose to accept it, and I didn’t have a choice, is to pack up and stage the home I’ve lived in for 15 years. I hummed and hawed about where to start for at least an hour, then finally decided on the kitchen.

First off, where did all this stuff come from? I don’t remember having moved this much in. The first item to go, Tupperware lids. I had boxes and boxes of Tupperware lids and not a container in sight to put them on. Seems the husband likes to take the dishes, but only bring the lids home. Which begs one to ask, where do they go? I mean is it like the socks when you stick them in the dryer? Do they rearrange their molecules and shift to another plain? Where? It’s a mystery. However, I can tell you where the lids went. Recyclable plastics. Therefore, if you’re looking for a couple hundred lids for your topless Tupperware containers, there you go.

Of course, my duties don’t end there. Oh no, that would be too easy. Seems I’ve opened a catering business. Yes, you heard me. I cooked a ham dinner, with all the trimmings packed it up, and hauled it down to the work site to feed the men. I set up tables and had the whole picnic thing going. It smelled good, looked good. I was so proud of the spread I’d put on. We had a beautiful day for it too. Sixty-degree temps and sunshine. What more could a girl ask for?

An animal control officer, for one.

Yes, our picnic was invaded by not one, not two, or even three dogs. Across the way is a farmhouse that the owner doesn’t live in, but her pets do. They busted out of the fence and were on the food in five seconds flat. I had four dogs, six cats and one guinea hen. It was awful. They were jumping up on the table, in the cars, on your lap, in your plates. Worse yet, they were neglected and half-starved. And the scary thing, the dogs have bitten the neighbours before. Yikes. I had to throw the ham and run. It was a feeding frenzy. I went home and made egg salad sandwhiches and the crew ate in their vehicles.

I did call animal control. Not only for the condition of the animals that raided our picnic, but for the condition of the farm animals across the street in the barnyard. Never in my life have I seen such horrible neglect. There was this donkey, his hoofs were at least six inches long and curled up on the ends like Arabian slippers. The hooves of several sheep and horses, though not as bad, were cracked to the tops and the animals lame. Tomorrow the state is paying them a visit. The last thing I wanted to do was move into the neighbourhood and make enemies. But some things you can’t turn your back on, and the abuse of animals is one of them.

Okay I've donned a pair of ruby slippers and I'm going to click my heels together and none of this will be happening. Right? Okay here I go. Wait, how about some magic words too. Bippity-boppity-boo, or is it Alakazam? Whatever, work with me, okay? I never had girls, my cartoon viewing was limited to Ninja Turtles, Sponge Bob and Rin and Stimpy. Here we go. There's no place like home...

Damn. I'll see you next week with more updates.

Adventures In House Flipping

For all of you that have been dying to see these, here they are. These were taken after a solid week of hauling out rubbish. But, I think you'll get the idea. Sorry, I hate to disappoint and not post pictures of the funnel, but a girls got to draw the line somewhere. Take note of the sill and roof-line. We will be jacking this baby up and blocking under it. Please excuse the dates on the camera. Husband malfunction.

Along the front you can see white letters. They spell out Rhythm Ranch. My husband in his infinite wisdom when he repaints the exterior, wants to repaint this name back on. Why? Is it so charming it needs to stay?

Adventures in House-Flipping and Multiple Reasons Why You Shouldn't Let Your Husband Watch Home Improvement Shows

Since this wonderful project is taking up so much of my time and slowing a couple of WIPs, I figured I’d make it part of my writing. Come with me while I start this journey of insanity, someone in his or her infinite wisdom tagged ‘House Flipping’. What traumas will men like Bob Villa and fine public television shows like Flip this House bring on an average woman’s life?

Day 1: My husband has informed me he is quitting his job and going into business with his parents. First off, if you’ve ever met my mother-in-law, you’d would know why the thought of going into business with her is much more terrifying than being without the paycheck (more about that later). I nearly had a stroke. If you are like me, an average person trying to make ends meet, living paycheck to pay check, socking away for retirement and your children’s higher education, you can see why I might have issues with this. Lucky me. He agreed to keep his job, if, and it’s a big if, I help him with this Flip. April 1st, 2008, we signed on the property.

Day 5: If I could summarize the adventure I have embarked on in two words, those words would be mouse poop. Today I awoke at 5:00am, ate a quick breakfast, stumbled out of the house and drove down the road to our new property. It’s everything I could dream of, rotted sills, broken windows and a leaky roof (more on that later). It doesn’t have running water; there is a funnel (yes, you heard me) in the bathroom attached to the sewer that the previous, if not a bit eccentric owner used to pee down. Inside, lining 2500 square feet, from wall to wall and floor to ceiling are boxes and boxes of junk. It’s an old dance hall that has seen better days, and more recently served as a junque shop. Why anyone one in their right mind would think spelling it junque instead of junk dresses it up and makes it any different, I will never know. Today I hauled out boxes and boxes of crap and yes, mouse poop. I don’t think there is a shower in existence that will erase this memory.

Outside in the yard, are piles and piles of broken vehicles, furniture, mattresses, wooden pallets, a great big fiberglass cylinder that looks like a grain silo, and multiple things my husband could throw into a burn pile and set the neighbourhood on fire with. Good thing we live in a rural area, where the local townies see piles of trash and think it’s a BYOB party. Half the town of Winchester turned out last night to see us light the night up like day.

Day 6: This morning, not only did I have left over debris to clean up from the fire, I had beer bottles all over the place. I have discovered the joys of burn piles and sore backs. Today, I have excused myself to do laundry for work tomorrow, and to see about getting a tetanus shot.

Next weekend I will return with more of my adventures. Please stick around for the sequel, Flip this Marriage.
I hope to have some photos to share. You really have to see this.