The Front House Remodel-Past, Present & Blown Up

It is a pre-requisite for our houses to have two front doors. We have owned only one property that had one front door.It was weird.

This ‘old lady gem’ was full of brass fixtures and wallpaper and stinky pet carpet and weird layouts and paneling.

One of our first tasks was to pull the paneling off in the living room. When we did: TA-DAH! Four secret windows were uncovered. Why would anyone cover over windows with paneling? Why do people still have rattails and mullets? Life is a mystery…

After a bunch of paint and sheetrock and re-wiring, we had this lovely room to look at. When we ripped up the carpet, we found pretty red concrete underneath. It looks like it’s wet, because it is. I just got done mopping it.

The second bath was made for hobbits. Tiny, tiny, tiny! So we remodeled it to look like this.
Before we remodeled it, you could have one foot cleansing itself in the shower, use the toilet and wash your face in the sink all at the same time. Although most people would love this feature, we decided to expand it a little and update it.

After the plumbing was stubbed in, and my hubby was on the road, I tried to hook the pex line up myself. I followed some bad advice from a hardware store worker and subsequently, the downstairs flooded. In a panic, I called my little brother, who saved the day. What a sweetie!

The kitchen was ugly. U-G-L-Y. Paneling above the top cabinets and the ceiling, fluorescents lighting, sticky wood cabinets and linoleum flooring. Ick. Something must be done!

Now, so lovely. It actually felt good to be in this kitchen once we were done with it. And we discovered a sneaky dumbwaiter pretending to be a bottom cabinet. It’s completely independent of the cabinets. You can roll it all over the house if you want to with a cake on it, or some wine, or just to show off that you have a dumbwaiter. Whatever floats your boat.

This room was screwy. Originally, you had to enter it here by going through the laundry room, which was off the kitchen. And it had a tiny closet with the hot water heater in it. The attic access was in this room as well. And to top it off, it had buzzy fluorescent lighting.
Yuck. Who would want to live there? Well Beau, who blew up one of our other houses, did for awhile. But, you will discover that he is quite crazy…

 
We tore out the carpet and installed these purty wood floors. Actually, I installed these hardwood floors. While hubby was on tour. Hm, how convenient. After installation, I sanded & stained all the hard woods in the house. I got the brown lung from it.

It’s been a love/hate relationship with this one, but….mostly I do love it.
Mostly.

The Guest House Remodel-Past, Present & Blown Up

We lived here for a couple of years and loved it. It met all of our needs and then some. But alas, our wandering eyes found a great deal on another ‘turd’ and we decided to rent this place out.

I still miss it. I could clean the entire thing in 45 minutes. Sigh.

This was the kitchen/living/dining/everything room. The lighting was perfect, the archway super cute. Before we remodeled it, this was one giant room covered in paneling and lit with fluorescent bulbs.

Yick.

A little side-note: I took this picture with a point and shoot camera in this house. The only lighting used was the ambient overhead lighting from the archway. Pretty…

We didn’t do much to the bathroom other than painting it and adding a new shower head. We leave things as original as we can, while still being functional. Trust me, this tile color choice would not have been my first.

I did fight for the chandelier in the bathroom. I have always wanted a chandelier in the bathroom. It seems so romantic. So Oooh La la.

We added several walls to break up the open floor plan and to make two bedrooms with closets. This was our bedroom, while the other was used as a office/guest bedroom.

I love the red in this room. It’s a bit racy and I like to be racy.

I miss you sweet little house. I hope you miss me too.

Current Remodel-Past, Present & Blown Up

Yes, two front doors again. We like to confuse people-especially delivery guys.

Our realtor called this house another ‘turd’.
I love our realtor. She is so truthful.

This poor house had been made into a mockery of a home. Something had to be done.

We basically had to tear it down to build it back up. Just like the army. Go Army! Go Greimans!

ONE MOMENT FOR:
A few weird facts about this house….
1.One entire bedroom and bathroom (including the ceiling) had been painted mauve and pepto pink.
2.The electrical panel had two inches of water sitting in it. YIKES!
3.After closing, we found a second secret electrical panel that even the inspector missed. Double YIKES!
4.We pulled up a brick pattern linoleum in the kitchen to find….the exact same brick pattern linoleum underneath it. What the heck?

But what takes the proverbial cake was that this house had FIVE exterior doors. Now, you know my stance on buying houses with at least two front doors. But do we really need five? We removed a couple, just for fun.

This one…

…and this one. Pay no attention to that man. I have no idea who that man is.

Now, a little twist. See this pretty barn? (Stick with me, I promise this has something to do with our current remodel.) My hubby grew up on this farm. His Grandma Greiman grew up here, and so did her father. The farm & the barn were built in the 1800’s. It has seen horse and buggies, flapper dresses, the Great Depression, World War I & II, telephones, airplanes, men on the moon, the Vietnam War, hippies, the internet…

I think you get the idea. It’s been around awhile.

The barn resides on the Greiman farm, which is referred to as a ‘Century Farm’. It’s been in the same family for over 100 years.

This is the haymow of said barn where generations of farmers stored their hay. And did other things in the haymow that maybe you shouldn’t be doin’. Wink, wink.

The barn was built with wooden pegs to hold it together instead of nails. The supporting beams had roman numerals carved into them, allowing the barn raisers to know which beam went where. The barn raisers handiwork survived tornadoes and fires and storms.

But, one summer we had to tear it down. That wasn’t easy for any of us.

Especially for these two: Kayle’s Grandpa and Grandma Greiman. They came by often, since they only lived four miles away, bearing cookies and ice cream and watching our progress.

Although much loved, the barn had become unsafe. This is one of the four corners of the barn. Notice it’s leaning on a little iron peg-and that’s all it’s leaning on.

We were able to recycle and save as much of the barn as possible. The foundational rocks are now in my garden. The haymow floor….

….is the flooring in most of our house. It was a pretty nasty sanding process, releasing 100 year old barn-ness into the air-but totally worth it.

The floors are my favorite part of our home. It’ll be hard to ever leave.

We made a ridiculously huge dining room table out of the barn’s stable wood. We can comfortably seat 10, and squeeze in 12 if need be. I wanted it wide enough for our plates and a huge amount of food in the center. Both sides of the family are big eaters…

This is one of the four legs to our dining room table. Notice the roman numeral carved into it?

But enough about that.
Let’s talk about injuries.

During ‘Insulation Day’, this guy Beau (who blew up another of our houses) decided to get creative. Anytime Beau gets creative, someone is going to get hurt.

He set about making a prop out of scrap wood to hold up the insulation that I was stapling to the ceiling. And sometime during the process….he shot a 16 penny nail through his finger. If you don’t know what a 16 penny nail is, it’s about 2 inches long.

Things I won’t repeat began to creep from Beau’s lips. I thought he was pulling my leg and had taped the nail to the backside of his finger. I told him to quit goofing off and get back to work.

Hubby took Beau to the hospital instead, nail and all. Big oops on my part.

But then, what do you expect from someone that looks like this and who sniffs paint fumes, old dust and fiberglass all day?
You shouldn’t expect much, let me tell you. Just pour her a glass of wine and call it a day.

How I met Biceps

It all started with a single shoe.
Evelyn (the lovely lady on the left) chose a shoe from the pile at a Young Farmer’s meeting, securing her lunch date with its owner (the strapping man on the left).

And she knew who the owner was of that gray suede shoe. His name was Kenneth. She wanted to have lunch with the owner of that gray suede shoe. And many lunches later, these two quickly turned into a family of six.

The boy on the bottom right is my father-in-law.

He looked like this as a teen.

And then he looked like this and married this hot little number.

(Photo courtesy of the lovely 80‘s Glamour Shots Studios.)

And they sprouted two boys (the one in the middle and the other on the right). I don’t know who that guy on the left is. Even though he was in my wedding. What a weirdo.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Kansas, I became friends with this girl on the left, Carly. We were simultaneously being secretaries at, dare I say it, Cutco Knives. She & I shared one desk and one phone and worked the same hours.

It was weird.

This is Carly’s little sister, Cynthia.
Doesn’t she look fun?! She became my best friend.

Now, let me tell you, this Cynthia girl was integral to me meeting my Hubby. I really owe her one or a thousand, or at least a pie. And this is how it happened; many, many moons ago.

Cynthia called me at work, inviting me to a punk rock show later that night. (This, of course, was way back when punk rock was still cool.) She promised there would be cute boys present and that I might even have a little fun. I was a fan of fun and I was a fan of cute boys, but I wasn’t really interested in finding one at a punk rock show. And I certainly wasn’t interested in finding a boy that planned on staying in Tulsa.

I had been focused on selling off all of my earthly possessions, determined to leave the Bible belt for the more laid back Rocky Mountains. A white water rafting job, a tent by the river, and a new adventure awaited me.

But back to the cute boys thing. I could still look at them, right? Looking didn’t tie a girl down; looking just entertained a girl for a bit. Acquiescing, I went to the punk rock show and wore my cutest pair of jeans. Jeans were a very stupid choice.

The simple fact that it was June usually steers an Okie away from wearing jeans. But I was going through a ‘I hate shorts’ thing and didn’t own a single pair. I had no idea the show would be in a steel warehouse without air conditioning or that it would be approximately 150 degrees that day.

I lingered on the outskirts of the mosh pit, standing as close as I could to the one and only fan in the building without getting my hair ripped out of my head. Band after band played; the mosh pit becoming more and more intense. The heat didn’t seem to bother anyone else. I fantasized about going home to peel off my jeans and drink a tubful of water.

Finally, the last band sauntered off stage, throwing guitar picks into the adoring crowd. I rolled my eyes. Keys in hand, I began looking for Cynthia. Spotting her talking to the drummer, I gave her the universal woman’s head nod, “I’m ready to go.” She gave me back the other universal woman’s head nod, “I’m not. There is a cute
boy involved here.”

I walked my coolest walk, sticky legs and all, over to Cynthia. She introduced me to the band. My eyes passed over the drummer with the fu-man-chu who had captured her interests, onto the lead singer who barely peeped out his name, then rested on the face of the bass player.

Oh, my. The bass player. I sucked in my breath.

He wore a black tank top, showcasing his large biceps wrapped in tattoos. I liked what I saw, but couldn’t help thinking the outfit was a little obvious, perhaps a little cocky. I shook Bicep’s hand as hard as I could and mumbled my name, hoping I looked confident and aloof.
I refused to be a groupie.

We said our goodbyes and our ‘nice-to-meet-you’s’ and I finally was able to drag Cynthia out into fresh air.

And that was that.

Or was it……?

Days later, I got to thinking that my little weirdo brother might want a punk rock CD from Biceps’ band. And I wouldn’t mind seeing him or his biceps again.

Just one more look before I head out for the Rockies.

Making a couple of calls over my lunch hour I soon had the band’s phone number. (The band shared a cell phone, a house, a van and most everything else. Weirdos.) Biceps’ brother answered the phone, sleepily reciting their address at the ungodly hour of 2pm.

Don’t these guys have real jobs?, I thought.

As soon as the clock struck five, I double-checked my makeup before heading across the river to their side of town, address in hand. I was thankful I wore my little black dress instead of the usual wrinkly grey pants. Biceps might be a little cocky, but he was also handsome.

I ain’t blind, ladies. I ain’t blind.

Shall I review?

Pulling my black Corsica into their driveway, I turned down my AC/DC, just in case it wasn’t ‘cool’ to listen to that band. (Subsequently, it is cool.) Biceps was loading a trailer with the band’s gear and he was shirtless.

Oh my, did he look good shirtless.

He walked to my car door, saying he had no idea I was stopping by but was glad that I did. My heart flipped a little and I knew I would spit or do something embarrassing if I didn’t get it together.

Keep it cool, Rebekah. Keep it cool.

I drew in a deep breath and stated my desperate need for one of their CD’s in order to appease my baby brother. Biceps offered me a guitar case to sit on while he fished a CD out of the trailer. I will not lie and say I didn’t enjoy the view.

After producing the CD, he wiped the sweat off of his face and offered me a glass of water and a retreat from the June heat. I accepted, as nonchalantly as I could. He seemed less cocky than I remembered. Biceps seemed almost nice.

I loved the way his skin crinkled right by his nose when he smiled.

My barricade was cracking.

The cool air hit me as soon as I walked into his house. This was no ordinary bachelor pad. It was actually decorated, and decorated well. I was intrigued.

He offered me a spot on the sofa and soon we were looking at photos of the band that had just been taken. We talked about their new CD and their label and the ‘market’ and a lot of other things I knew nothing about.

I enjoyed every word that came out of his mouth.

An hour later, water had done what it’s supposed to do and I sheepishly inquired the whereabouts of the bathroom. He pointed the way and I hoped he was watching me go.

Opening the door, I was shocked. Floored. Speechless.
The bathroom was absolutely spotless. And it smelled good. No prickly guy hair in the sink or shaving cream blopped somewhere or toilet paper roll sans toilet paper. It looked like my bathroom. Clean. Organized. Not gross. Cute.

My barricade crumbled. I was smitten by his cleanly ways.

Returning to the living room, I complimented him on the cleanliness of the bathroom. His response was that he was a bit of a neat freak. Could this be true? I was a neat freak. Could two neat freaks have found the other in this seemingly endless dirty world? I hoped it was true but I needed to know more. I needed to study his habits, observe his ways.
Biceps invited me to ‘hang out’ later on and I jumped at the chance. More research needed to be done.

Rushing home to change into something less corporate, I flitted around the apartment while informing my roommate about this cute guy who played in a band and had tattoos that I had met. She rolled her eyes, but smiled politely.

Leaving my roommate alone with her thoughts, I gunned my Corsica to our pre-arranged ‘hang out’ spot, a mutual friends apartment. Biceps met me at the door and smiled. He looked better than he had before and smelled a little like heaven. I could live in that moment forever. Biceps led me inside and we sat side by side on the only couch in the tiny apartment. I was pretty sure his knee touched mine at one point. I prayed to my Holy Maker that I didn’t fart or sneeze or do both.

At one point, it slipped out that I was in the market for a motorcycle.
What better way to get around the mountainous and snowy Colorado than on a motorcycle? My plans had not been completely thought through, I will admit. Biceps suggested we hunt down a Walnecks, which was a magazine specializing in the sale of vintage motorcycles. I tossed him the keys to my car and asked him to drive. He obliged, but first opened my car door for me. Handsome and a gentleman. I liked that.

Standing in the magazine aisle at the bookstore, his shoulder brushed against mine and stayed put. My breath quit coming for a minute.

Soon, it was dinnertime and he suggested meeting up with a group of his friends at a diner. It wasn’t even a question who should drive by this time. He opened my car door again, as if he had been doing this his whole life.

The two of us poured over my new magazine, oblivious to the rest of the world in the restaurant. Soon, greasy diner food began to surround us, the smell of french fries (my arch-nemesis) surrounding me. I was starving, but determined to stick to my vegan diet. I focused on the motorcycle magazine, telling myself a yummy apple awaited me at home.

After two hours, the group disbanded and Biceps walked me to my car. He offered to get a ride home from a friend, rather than me drive him home.
I wasn’t ready to let him go but remembered what my mom had said about desperate girls. So, I shrugged my shoulders and said something really cool, like “Yeah, whatever. Sounds good.” But he lingered and flirted.

He showed off a little bit, climbing the parking light pole which made me laugh. I wanted him to make me laugh again. I made mention of skipping out on the greasy food, and how hungry I had become. He offered to take me somewhere that I could eat a decent meal. Trying to not be desperate, I told him I had an apple waiting for me at home. He said that an apple wasn’t a meal and smiled again.

I loved his smile.

I threw him the keys once more to my sweet ride. He drove to the only restaurant open at that hour and after ordering our meals, Biceps informed me he was ready to be married and had been since he turned 18. I told him I was fine not being married, and had planned to ditch the corporate life to become a white-water rafting instructor in Colorado.

He asked me if I didn’t mind not shaving my armpits for months. I had wondered if I would be ok with that. He then asked me where I was going to live. I replied that I would be living in a tent with another girl, in the community of white water rafters. I could almost feel his amusement with me oozing across the table. He asked me if I could defend myself against bears. I told him I knew how to play dead and cover my head and that I would be alright. Besides, this was only temporary and
not a permanent lifestyle.

I had a feeling he was trying to make me question my dreams of Colorado, tents and furry armpits. Which I did question later that night when I dropped him off. And then I questioned it again when he called the very next morning to ask me for a second date that night. And by the third day with Biceps and a third date, his heart had wrapped itself around mine just as his lips did while we watched the stars.

And before I could make my Colorado dream a reality, he proposed to me in the middle of the night, in German. (He learned German just to ask me to marry him.) Of course I said yes, although it took me awhile to pull the sleep out of my eyes and understand this wasn’t a dream.

Two months later, we were hitched.

No, we weren’t prego. We are very old fashioned that way.

After a brief honeymoon, we headed out on the road with his band.

And THAT was THAT.

And it continues to be THAT for ten years now. I think I’ll keep him.
Even though he is weird.