Steam Cleanin' in the House
I was at home, but it wasn't my current home. It was my dream home, but not in terms of HGTV 'dream home,' but just my home in this dream. Nothing like I would think it would be, but that was the way it was. Whatever.
I was in another room, and came into the main kitchen/dining/family area to hear a huge noise, power equipment. I look around a corner and see the old family kitchen table, the one I inherited from my grandmother, stripped bare. Sure, we'd been thinking of refinishing it for a few years, and there it was, just about there. My first impression was that of an animal without its skin. The wood was a light blond, very different than the dark brown from before, and it was some really beautiful wood underneath, still needing some detailed refinishing. But it was going to be really nice once it was done.
And the noise? Well, it seemed that it had been power-washed, right there in the kitchen. I was suddenly aware that I was in standing water, a good 1/2 inch of it on the floor. As I looked down, I could see the hardwood floor slats starting to warp and buckle, slow-motion-like, like a time-lapse of a flower blooming. Okay, I had a table ready for refinishing, and $8000 in floor replacement now. That was not a good trade-off.
It couldn't possibly have been my wife who was stupid enough to do this, right? The idea to power-wash was pretty good, I saw that, but inside? That was a bit daft.
And then the compressor started thumping again, and the hiss of the hose was going. Whoever was at it was doing it again. I stepped around a corner, and there was Teri, one of the soccer moms on my daughter's teams of which I am coach, power-blasting our antique Gulbransen piano. I couldn't really fathom what I was looking at.
She was fast, and thorough, and why I didn't jump in, I don't really know. The whole thing apparently was modular, as she just pulled parts off the piano, blasted them with the power washer, and then set them aside. Flecks of the ebony finish were flying everywhere, on the walls, floor, ceiling, all over her. The water was sloshing all over the place, flowing out the front door, down the stairs and into the basement. I had no idea what in the holy living bat fuck on a stick was going on.
Then there was the wife? What the hell? Well, she explained, Teri had volunteered to do this, and she liked doing it, and was doing it for free, and was working fast, and blah blah blah. What about the destroyed floor? No answer for that? What about the ruined piano? Refinished, sure, but the felt, the strings, the pedals, all of the internal parts? What about the ruined antique piano, the gift from my dead grandmother? No answer on that one either.
And the water just kept on a-flowin' out the door, sparkling as the sun caught it, throwing really neat designs and reflections onto the ceiling above us, the black flecks in the water like something from a Chihuly work, magnificently random flecks of color in the clear water, the light bouncing.
I was in another room, and came into the main kitchen/dining/family area to hear a huge noise, power equipment. I look around a corner and see the old family kitchen table, the one I inherited from my grandmother, stripped bare. Sure, we'd been thinking of refinishing it for a few years, and there it was, just about there. My first impression was that of an animal without its skin. The wood was a light blond, very different than the dark brown from before, and it was some really beautiful wood underneath, still needing some detailed refinishing. But it was going to be really nice once it was done.
And the noise? Well, it seemed that it had been power-washed, right there in the kitchen. I was suddenly aware that I was in standing water, a good 1/2 inch of it on the floor. As I looked down, I could see the hardwood floor slats starting to warp and buckle, slow-motion-like, like a time-lapse of a flower blooming. Okay, I had a table ready for refinishing, and $8000 in floor replacement now. That was not a good trade-off.
It couldn't possibly have been my wife who was stupid enough to do this, right? The idea to power-wash was pretty good, I saw that, but inside? That was a bit daft.
And then the compressor started thumping again, and the hiss of the hose was going. Whoever was at it was doing it again. I stepped around a corner, and there was Teri, one of the soccer moms on my daughter's teams of which I am coach, power-blasting our antique Gulbransen piano. I couldn't really fathom what I was looking at.
She was fast, and thorough, and why I didn't jump in, I don't really know. The whole thing apparently was modular, as she just pulled parts off the piano, blasted them with the power washer, and then set them aside. Flecks of the ebony finish were flying everywhere, on the walls, floor, ceiling, all over her. The water was sloshing all over the place, flowing out the front door, down the stairs and into the basement. I had no idea what in the holy living bat fuck on a stick was going on.
Then there was the wife? What the hell? Well, she explained, Teri had volunteered to do this, and she liked doing it, and was doing it for free, and was working fast, and blah blah blah. What about the destroyed floor? No answer for that? What about the ruined piano? Refinished, sure, but the felt, the strings, the pedals, all of the internal parts? What about the ruined antique piano, the gift from my dead grandmother? No answer on that one either.
And the water just kept on a-flowin' out the door, sparkling as the sun caught it, throwing really neat designs and reflections onto the ceiling above us, the black flecks in the water like something from a Chihuly work, magnificently random flecks of color in the clear water, the light bouncing.
posted by Scrumpox at 7:48 AM
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