4:01 p.m. Well, I've been spending the entire day with the underside of the sink. We determined that the grinder is intact, but that parts of the tubing and piping, namely, #1 and #2 have shaken loose. It's as if the whole pipe is just too heavy for the job.

What seemed like an explosion was in fact the stuff flying out (under centrifugal force, of course) from the gap at #1. Since I'd opened the cabinet doors to see what the matter was, I got also spewed. Of course.

I'm much calmer now, in the light of day. I've washed off all my cleaning supplies, of which there are many more, not in the photo. I've sprayed the interior with that really horrible smelling Lysol lemon stuff. Might as well use it up, right? Advice: Don't buy it. It's worse than the smell before.

And Igor has hit upon a plumbing solution (#3) that merely requires that I don't knock the wood pieces out when I put the scrub bucket (also all cleaned up now) back. Tippy-toe around the wood pieces, and all should remain ok.

Brilliant, eh? This is why he has the Ph.D. and I am the mere scrubber and recorder.

And since we're under the sink, allow me to impart some more wisdom, which I've amassed over the years. See the red thing behind #2? That's a handy place to keep your vacuum-cleaner-bag refills -- up and out of the way, and every home seems to have a collection of pipes near the back wall between which you can wedge the bag.

But that's not the wisdom. It's this: whenever you move into a new place, there are several ways to make it yours. One bit of Chinese wisdom suggests that you sleep in the center of the new dwelling the first night, to sort of "claim" the space psychically.

Now, since that's sometimes not possible, what with all the boxes and things, here's the Italian way: pull everything out from under the sink and clean it up all the way to the walls. Make that scariest, most intimate spot yours, with no fear of dark things behind unspeakable things, and the rest of the place will follow.

Do you see what immense bravery it takes to be a housewife or househusband?

Put on gloves if you have to, and a mask. Open a brown shopping bag and start throwing the yicky old abandoned stuff away, and then vacuum it and then yes -- scrub it up. After that, you can paint it, or put some kind of paper down, or use those extra tiles that people always leave around.

And then it's yours. You're the boss of it. What you put back under there is up to you -- but at least the most horrible, most despondent place in the entire house (unless you have a basement) is now notched up one degree. All things are possible if you face the worst the dwelling can throw at you.

End of wisdom.

1:38 a.m. It's still not dry under there, so I can't put things back and reclaim the kitchen. The sick-vomit-lemon smell is still there, wedded to the wet wood walls. It smells like someone else's kitchen. We had take-out Chinese tonight, in the TV room. I'm keeping a very wide berth.

And I really hate having all the cleaning stuff spread out in the kitchen -- just staring up at me from the floor. The Easy Off can is nearly rusted through. The lemony Formby's furniture stuff is moldy. I really don't clean with the same vigor I once exhibited, and I'm not exactly sure why.

Maybe it was the whole "shabby chic" thing that took hold a few years ago. Where you once had rust and crud and a gas-mask job of scraping and burning off, it all became, suddenly: patina.

I totally embraced the patina lifestyle, and now I find, to my endless amusement, that my person is developing its very own homey weathered look. I have character. I am becoming a real, live antique.

There's a cheery thought.