Renovation station

IMG_0192As I write, a pair of large holes sit in the foundation of what used to be my kitchen. A sheet of plastic lines the stairs. Dust from wood and sheet rock and concrete permeates the air and makes its way into our lungs.

The two-car garage contains zero cars and all manner of lumber, machinery and tools.

I know. This doesn’t  compare to being sucked into the vortex or an F-5 or carried five miles inland by a tsunami. No one has been injured or separated from family.

But living through a remodel is a disaster all its own.

My daughter is sleeping in her brother’s room. The missus and I are bunking in her room. My 3 a.m. bathroom breaks now involve a treacherous trip downstairs.

I’m high on lacquer fumes. I’m dreaming in Sherwin-Williams technicolor. My change orders have change orders.

The cat is losing her hair, she is so stressed.

One month down. Three more to go — if we’re lucky.

 

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