Cabinet Hinges

Transforming an old kitchen is definitely a slow process, but we're getting there! So far, we've painted the cabinets, spray-painted the island, and sealed everything with polycrylic. Adding a small center island, new hinges, knobs, handles, and some peel-and-stick tiles is already making a massive difference. It's still a work in progress, but the vision is coming together! submitted by /u/vetandaraflz to r/kitchenremodel [link] [comments]

Hello everyone! I just thought I would pop in to share this makeover I completed on a beautiful $30 china cabinet find. I used chalk paints, imitation gold leaf, red chinoiserie wallpaper, and a little bit of gilding wax for the hinges. It was beautiful before, but I am just so so so so pleased with how striking it is now. I hope you like it too! Thank you. 😄 *(*Edit: Wow! You all are so amazing! Thank you so much for your comments and reactions to this! I really wasn't expecting it, and I'm overwhelmed! I have never shared one of my painting projects with the world before now. Thank you so much, again! You all are very sweet!) *(*Edit Edit: 600 likes?! Wow people! I am speechless! Thank you so much! I really did not ever anticipate a response like this at all. I don't even know what else to say!) *(*Edit Edit Edit: 1,300+ likes!?!? You all... I'm floored....! You all have really blown me away with your enthusiasm and kindness. Especially from those of you who disliked painted furniture before seeing my creation. I have other projects coming up! Would there be any interest in a "follow-along as I do..." video?) submitted by /u/Ok_Noise4431 to r/FurniturePainting [link] [comments]

The previous owners left a bag of extra hinges. So I have replacements but they keep breaking every few years. Is it hinge quality? If so what’s a good brand? How do I determine the right kind? The overlay? Do they make a better option? Will picture 4 work better? What’s a better option? Edit: they are FGV 80059. “Made in Italy” I found exact replacements on eBay but I want better quality. I just don’t know which model numbers are compatible submitted by /u/cryptotarheel to r/HomeMaintenance [link] [comments]

My fiancée and I bought our first house together in July 2025 and shortly after moving in we had a storm where it rained hard for 3 hours straight. During the storm, we saw this (see video) happening in the basement. I asked multiple professional plumbers about it and they all said it could be related to the French drain that was installed in the basement during the renovations the previous owners did. Previous owners never lived in the house, they were flippers. Everything else they had done has been great with the exception of some of the paint and a couple of the cabinet hinges being stripped out. After I saw this in the basement, I checked the gutters to find them completely clogged up, so I spent the next day cleaning them out. I did notice that the gutters drain on the same side of the house as the driveway and the water was going straight back towards the house. So I got some extensions for them. Since doing those two things, the problem has never been this bad again but it still happens any time there is rain or snow melt. Is this normal? If not, what does it mean and what do we need to do to fix it? submitted by /u/Respectable_1642 to r/HomeMaintenance [link] [comments]

I am a medical doctor, specifically a forensic pathologist. A few months ago, I landed my first official position at a large county morgue. After years of medical school, residency, and brutal hours, I finally had a steady job with a clear routine. The work is not glamorous, but it is necessary. I examine the deceased, determine the cause of death, and prepare the reports. It is quiet, methodical work, which is exactly what I wanted. The facility itself is located in the basement level of a massive hospital complex. It is a sterile, cold environment, filled with stainless steel tables, bright fluorescent lights, and the constant, heavy smell of chemical cleaners and formaldehyde. There are only three of us who work down here during the day: the senior medical examiner, myself, and the janitor. The senior examiner is a quiet woman who spends most of her time in her office reviewing files. We barely speak unless it is about a specific case. That leaves the janitor. He is an old man. His skin is deeply wrinkled, resembling weathered leather, and his posture is severely hunched. He wears a standard gray maintenance uniform that always looks slightly too large for his thin frame. He moves slowly, dragging a mop bucket down the long, tiled hallways, keeping entirely to himself. He never speaks to me or the senior examiner. He just does his job, cleaning the floors, wiping down the stainless steel tables after we finish our examinations, and emptying the biohazard bins. I thought he was just a quiet, isolated man working a miserable job. But within my first three weeks, I started to notice a pattern. The morgue has a small viewing room. It is a space where families are brought to identify the bodies of their loved ones, or to spend a few final moments with them before they are transported to a funeral home. It is, without a doubt, the heaviest room in the building. As a doctor, you learn to detach yourself from the emotional weight of death, but witnessing the raw, visceral grief of a mother or a husband in that viewing room never gets easier. People react to sudden death in terrible ways. They collapse on the floor. They scream until their vocal cords tear. They hyperventilate. They beg the doctors to tell them there has been a mistake. It is loud, chaotic, and deeply tragic. But I noticed something impossible happening whenever the old janitor was working near the viewing room. The first time I noticed it, we had received the body of a young man who had died in a motorcycle accident. His parents were brought down to the viewing room. Through the heavy wooden door, I could hear the mother sobbing hysterically. Her wails were echoing down the tiled hallway. It was the sound of a person breaking apart completely. I was standing near the reception desk, filling out paperwork, feeling that familiar knot of heavy pity in my stomach. The old janitor walked down the hallway, dragging his mop bucket. He stopped outside the viewing room door. He left his mop leaning against the wall and slowly pushed the door open. He stepped inside. I assumed he was just going in to empty the trash or clean a spill, completely oblivious to the grieving parents. I considered going in to pull him out and tell him to give the family some privacy. But less than thirty seconds after he entered the room, the screaming stopped. It did not taper off into quiet crying. It stopped entirely, as if a switch had been flipped. A minute later, the old janitor walked back out of the room, picked up his mop, and continued down the hall. Shortly after, the parents walked out of the viewing room. I braced myself to see their ruined faces, prepared to offer them water or a chair. But they did not look ruined. The mother’s face was dry. The father was holding her hand. They looked calm. They looked incredibly, deeply peaceful. It was a genuine, relaxed relief. They thanked the receptionist politely and walked out to the elevator. I stood there, completely confused. You do not recover from the sudden death of your child in two minutes. Over the next month, I watched this exact scenario play out dozens of times. A grieving family would arrive, broken and screaming. The janitor would slip into the room. A few moments later, he would leave, and the family would emerge in a state of profound, unnatural peace. I never heard what he said to them. I tried to stand near the door once, straining to listen, but all I could hear was a low, rhythmic whispering. It sounded like he was speaking a language I did not understand, the syllables thick and harsh. Whatever he was doing, it was erasing their grief completely. I asked the senior examiner about it one afternoon. I asked her if she had ever noticed how the janitor interacts with the families. She did not look up from her paperwork. She simply told me that the old man had been working in the morgue long before she started. She told me he had a "gift for comforting the bereaved," and that I should leave him to his business. Her tone was sharp and final, making it clear the conversation was over. But the pattern with the families was not the only strange thing about the janitor. There was also the rule about the night shift. There is a very strict, unwritten rule in our facility. No one is allowed to stay in the morgue past six in the evening. The official explanation is that the hospital cuts the ventilation and power to the non-essential basement sectors to save money, but that is a lie. The power stays on. The real rule is simply that the medical staff must vacate the premises before nightfall. Only the janitor stays. He is the only person authorized to be in the morgue overnight. I learned how strictly this rule was enforced during my second month. We had a backlog of reports due to a large pileup on the highway. I decided to stay late at my desk to finish typing up the autopsy notes. I watched the senior examiner pack her bag at five-thirty. She told me to make sure I left before six. I nodded and kept typing. At exactly six o'clock, the door to my office swung open. The old janitor was standing in the doorway. He was holding his mop. He looked at me, his deep, dark eyes locking onto mine. "It is time for you to go," he said. His voice was incredibly deep. I told him I just needed another hour to finish my reports, and that I would lock up when I was done. He did not argue. He simply stepped fully into my office, walked over to my desk, and reached down to the wall outlet. He pulled the power cord to my computer directly out of the socket. The screen went black, instantly deleting an hour of my unsaved work. I stood up, angry, prepared to yell at him. But when I looked at his face, the anger evaporated. His expression was completely blank, but there was a heavy, dangerous tension in his posture. He looked at me with a cold, predatory focus that made my skin crawl. "The work is done," he said slowly. "You leave now." I packed my bag in silence and walked to the elevator. He stood in the hallway and watched me until the doors closed. That incident planted a deep seed of suspicion in my mind. The unnatural comforting of the families, the rigid isolation at night, the strange behavior of the senior examiner, it all pointed to something deeply wrong happening in the basement of the hospital. I could not let it go. My scientific training demanded an explanation. I needed to know what the old man was doing when the doors were locked. The opportunity to find out came three days ago. We received the body of a young woman in the early afternoon. It was a tragic, sudden medical failure. Her family arrived shortly after. There was a large group of them, parents, siblings, a fiancé. The viewing room was filled with absolute agony. The wailing was so loud it penetrated the thick walls of the examination suites. I watched from the end of the hallway. The janitor, moving with his slow, dragging shuffle, pushed open the door to the viewing room and went inside. Less than a minute later, absolute silence fell over the room. The janitor walked out, picking up his mop. Five minutes later, the large family emerged. They were holding each other, talking softly, wiping away a few lingering tears, but the heavy, crushing despair was entirely gone. They looked relieved. They looked like a heavy physical weight had been lifted from their shoulders. I made my decision right then. I was going to find out what he was whispering, and I was going to find out why he had to be alone with the bodies at night. At five-thirty, I packed my bag just like always. I said goodnight to the senior examiner and walked out to the main hallway toward the elevators. But instead of pressing the button to go up to the lobby, I slipped through the heavy fire door leading to the old supply storage room. The storage room is filled with dusty boxes of outdated medical supplies, broken rolling chairs, and old filing cabinets. It has not been used in years. I squeezed behind a tall metal shelving unit, sat down on the cold floor, and waited. I checked my watch. Six o'clock passed. I heard the distant sound of the heavy main doors locking for the night. The hum of the daytime activity died down entirely, leaving the basement level in profound silence. The cold began to seep through my scrubs, making my joints ache. I listened closely for the sound of the mop bucket, or the heavy dragging footsteps of the janitor. I heard nothing. then, a new sound broke the silence. It was a heavy, mechanical clanking, followed by the squeal of metal hinges. It was coming from the cold storage room. The room where we keep the large, stainless steel refrigeration units that house the bodies before and after examination. I stood up slowly, my legs stiff. I pushed the fire door open just a crack and peered out into the hallway. The main overhead fluorescent lights had been turned off. The only illumination came from the faint, green emergency exit signs mounted above the doors. I slipped out of the storage room and walked silently down the tiled corridor. My heart was beating rapidly against my ribs. I felt a deep, instinctual warning telling me to turn around and find a way out of the building. But the need to know, the terrible curiosity, pushed me forward. I reached the door to the cold storage room. It was slightly ajar. I pressed my back against the wall next to the doorframe and listened. I heard a wet, heavy, tearing sound. It sounded like thick fabric being ripped apart by bare hands, mixed with a sickening, squelching noise. It was followed by a wet, rhythmic smacking sound. Someone was eating. I slowly leaned my head forward and looked through the gap in the door. The cold storage room was illuminated only by the small, internal light of one of the open refrigeration drawers. The drawer had been pulled all the way out. Lying on the metal tray was the body of the young woman who had been brought in that afternoon. Standing over the metal tray was the janitor. His pale, wrinkled back was facing me. He was leaning heavily over the body. Both of his arms were buried deep inside the abdominal cavity of the corpse. My medical training tried to process what I was seeing. He was not using a scalpel, or even using a bone saw or surgical retractors. The woman's chest had not been opened through a standard Y-incision. The old man had simply forced his bare hands directly through the skin, muscle, and ribs. I watched in absolute, paralyzing horror as his shoulders heaved backward. He pulled his hands out of the chest cavity with a wet, sucking pop. Held tightly in his long, blood-soaked fingers was a dark, heavy mass of tissue. It was her liver. The janitor raised the large, dark organ to his face. He opened his mouth. In the dim light, I saw that his jaw seemed to unhinge, dropping lower than humanly possible. His teeth were sharp, jagged, and completely black. He bit deeply into the raw tissue. The sound of his chewing was wet and loud in the quiet, echoing room. He swallowed a large piece whole, his throat bulging unnaturally, and then took another massive bite. I felt a violent wave of nausea hit my stomach. I clamped my hand tightly over my mouth to stop myself from gagging. My brain was screaming in panic. I stepped backward, pulling away from the door frame, desperate to run back down the hallway and find a way out of the basement. I was completely terrified. As I moved my foot backward, my heel caught the edge of a heavy, plastic biohazard bin sitting against the wall. The bin tipped over. It hit the tiled floor with a loud, hollow crash, spilling plastic gloves and empty syringes across the corridor. The sound was deafening in the silence. The wet chewing in the cold room stopped instantly. I froze. I did not breathe. I stared at the open gap in the doorway. A heavy, low growl vibrated out from the cold room. It did not sound human. It sounded like the noise a large predator makes deep in its chest when it is disturbed at a kill. "Who is there?" the deep, scraping voice asked. I did not answer. I turned and ran. I abandoned all caution. I sprinted down the dark hallway, my shoes slipping slightly on the polished tiles. I ran past the reception desk, heading blindly toward the back stairwell that led up to the emergency exit. Behind me, I heard the heavy metal door of the cold room smash violently open, slamming against the concrete wall. Then came the footsteps. They were heavy, incredibly fast, and accompanied by the sound of long fingernails clicking rapidly against the floor tiles. He was moving with terrifying speed. I reached the end of the main corridor and turned sharply into the autopsy suite. I thought I could cut through the examination rooms and reach the service elevator in the back. I pushed through the swinging double doors, plunging into the dark, stainless-steel room. I scrambled behind a large examination table, crouching low to the ground. I held my breath, pressing my back against the cold metal cabinet. The swinging doors burst open behind me. The janitor stepped into the autopsy suite. The dim ambient light from the hallway caught his figure. He was covered in dark blood from his chest to his chin. He was breathing heavily, the air whistling through his jagged teeth. I watched him from under the table. His posture was completely different. He stood tall, his limbs appearing too long for his body. His fingers dragged against the sides of the tables as he walked slowly down the aisle. "You did not leave," he whispered. His voice echoed off the tile walls. "You broke the rule. I told you the work was done." I pressed my hands against my mouth, tears of pure terror stinging my eyes. I was trapped. The only exit to the room was behind him. He walked slowly past the table I was hiding behind. He did not look down. He continued toward the back of the room. I thought I had a chance. If he moved far enough away, I could slip out from under the table and sprint for the swinging doors. I waited until his back was fully turned to me, the sound of his footsteps moving away. I shifted my weight on my knees, preparing to crawl. Suddenly, a massive, blood-soaked hand dropped down from above the table and clamped violently onto my shoulder. I screamed. He ripped me upward, lifting my entire body weight effortlessly with one hand. He threw me across the room. I hit a metal rolling cart, sending stainless steel tools crashing to the floor, and collapsed onto my back. The breath was knocked out of me completely. I looked up, gasping for air. The janitor was standing over me. His face was a mask of cold, predatory anger. His dark eyes were solid black, lacking any white sclera. Blood dripped steadily from his chin onto my medical scrubs. I scrambled backward on the floor, kicking my legs away from him, my back hitting the solid concrete wall. I had nowhere left to run. "Please," I choked out, raising my hands defensively. "Please don't kill me. I won't say anything. I swear." He looked down at me, his jagged black teeth exposed. The heavy, rotting smell of raw meat and old blood washed over me, making my stomach heave. He crouched down, bringing his face inches away from mine. "Do you know what I am, doctor?" he asked. His voice was no longer a growl, but a calm, raspy whisper. I shook my head frantically, completely paralyzed by fear. "I am a ghoul," he stated simply, "I consume the flesh of the dead. It is my nature. It is how I sustain myself." I stared at him, my mind unable to fully accept the impossible reality of the creature crouching in front of me. "I have lived in the dark spaces of humanity for a very long time," he continued, his black eyes unblinking. "For centuries, my kind dug in the dirt, breaking open wooden boxes, hunting in the mud and the rot. It was difficult, dangerous, and humans have always hunted us when they catch us." He reached out and grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulling me slightly closer. "But the world changed," he said. "Humans became organized. You built places like this. Massive, cold rooms where you gather your dead and lay them out on silver platters. You made it easy." "Why..." I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. "Why don't you just kill me?" "Because of the arrangement," he said. "I do not kill the living. Killing draws attention. It brings police, lights, and finally... hunters. I only take from the dead. Specifically, the liver. It is the richest organ, holding the deepest essence of the body. I take the liver, and no one notices. Your senior examiner signs the paperwork, attributes the missing tissue to decay or trauma, and the bodies go to the fire or the earth." The pieces began to click together in my terrified mind. The senior examiner knew. She knew exactly what was happening in the basement at night. That was why she was so strict about the six o'clock rule. She was protecting him, or protecting the hospital from him. "But what about the families?" I asked, desperation pushing the words out of my mouth. "What do you say to them in the viewing room? How do you stop them from crying?" The ghoul smiled. It was a horrific, skin-stretching grimace. "That is the price of the arrangement," he whispered. "A transaction. Grief is a heavy, toxic energy. It poisons the living. When I consume the essence of their dead, I create a void. I whisper the ancient words of transaction, and I pull their grief into that void. I take their pain, I swallow their agony, and I leave them with peace." He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. "I eat their dead," he said softly, "and in exchange, they do not have to suffer the weight of the loss. It is a fair trade. I get my meal, and your hospital gets a reputation for miraculously peaceful grieving processes. The administration ignores the me, the senior doctor turns a blind eye, and I eat in peace." "And now you broke the rule," he said, his voice hardening again. His grip tightened on my collar. " You are a loose thread." "No," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "I am not a loose thread. I understand now. I understand the transaction. You need me to process the bodies. You need me to sign the paperwork during the day so you can eat at night. I will help you. Just like the senior doctor." He stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. The dark, black eyes searched my face, looking for deception. I held his gaze, terrified, projecting every ounce of sincerity I could muster into my expression. I was begging for my life. "A new arrangement," he muttered softly. He leaned in close, his cold, wet lips pressing against my ear. "If you ever speak of this to the living world," he whispered, his voice vibrating directly into my skull, "I will not wait for you to end up on a metal tray. I will come to your home, I will tear you open while your heart is still beating, and I will eat you whole. Do you understand?" "Yes," I gasped, nodding frantically. "I understand. I promise." He released my shirt. He stood up slowly, the impossible height returning to his posture. He looked down at me one last time, a look of complete, predatory dominance. "Go home, doctor," he said, turning away. "The work is done." He walked back out the swinging doors, his heavy footsteps fading down the hallway toward the cold room to finish his meal. I lay on the floor of the autopsy suite for a long time. My entire body was shaking uncontrollably. When I finally found the strength to stand, I stumbled out of the room, ran up the back stairwell, and burst out into the cold night air of the parking lot. I have not been back to the hospital since. I called in sick for the last three days. But I know I have to go back tomorrow. I know that if I quit, if I run away, he will think I am going to break the arrangement. He will think I am a loose thread. I am writing this here because I need someone in the world to know the truth. I need this terrible secret to exist somewhere outside of my own head, because the weight of it is crushing me. I am a doctor. I took an oath to protect the living. And to do that, to survive, I have to feed the dead to a monster. Tomorrow morning, I will put on my scrubs, I will walk into the morgue, and I will nod to the old janitor with the mop. I will do what is necessary to survive, so, I will never, ever stay past six o'clock again. submitted by /u/gamalfrank to r/stories [link] [comments]

I hate loud noises. Lucky me I work at a very noisy job. I like money more than I hate noise. Plus I wear double hearing protection. Earplugs and noise cancelling ear muffs. My wife and I have been married for fifteen and a half years. For our tenth anniversary I surprised her with a kitchen remodel. We had Formica countertops from the fifties. Plywood cabinetry. The people from That 70s Show would have felt at home. I had done some shopping with my sister to make sure I wasn't going to over promise and under deliver. I had been saving for this since we bought the house. The only thing that mattered to me was soft closing cabinets. My wife agreed and was super happy with the budget. Then she changed plans and rather than put in her own money from her job she just got the extra things she wanted and cut out the hinges we had agreed on. And then her and the kids have proceeded to try to drive me crazy for five years. I usually don't eat with the family because of my work hours. So whatever is left from their meal is mine. I try to eat in the kitchen in peace. Trust me I've tried eating in other rooms, even the basement. My wife takes it as a personal insult that I want to be apart for m them after being gone all day. I've tried talking to her about the slamming. I've tried talking to he and the kids about it. I've bought little felt stickers and put them on. She took them off. A couple weeks weeks ago I was eating quietly after work. And one of the kids needed something from the cabinets. Rather than just opening up the one where the item should have been my wife opened four doors. And then rather than gently closing the cabinet she slammed all four of them shut like she was bugs Bunny inventing a new percussion instrument. I didn't say anything. The next day I super glued rubber bumpers top and bottom on every door. My wife is upset that the cabinet doors don't close properly. She tried removing one and pulled a sliver of oak off the door. I used wood glue to fix it. It looks fine unless you really look. She tried cutting one off. The bumpers are vulcanized rubber. They aren't going anywhere. She told me that I ruined her beautiful kitchen. I told her that she and the kids seemed to take pleasure in pissing me off with noise that could be avoided. I told her to leave the bumpers alone and that if I found any missing that door would also go missing. All I want if fifteen minutes of peace to eat quietly. When we eat together there is all kinds of noise but it doesn't bother me. That's just the noise a family makes. But it's like they wait until I get home to come skam the doors. They are literally home for hours before I get home. And they have hours after I eat to go and get what they need. Was I an asshole for my solution and the solution that will follow if they try to get undermine me? submitted by /u/Minute_Top_4323 to r/AITAH [link] [comments]