Recently, a racket downstairs woke my wife and me at 5 in the morning.
I thought it was a SWAT team entering with a no-knock search warrant. Turned out to be some piece of carpenter’s machinery on life support, kicking itself on to get air.
I walk out to get the paper the other day, and a giant truck is sitting at the end of my driveway, stalking me. Of course, it’s the Dumpster guy who was supposed to be here the day before.
So the cars that were moved yesterday now must be moved again.
This house thing may be getting to me.
Kitchen gutted, we haven’t had a home-cooked meal in two months. The cat’s room is our living area. I talk to my contractor more than I do my wife.
And good Lord, the choices that must be made.
This week, my wife emailed me photos of kitchen island table legs. Who knew there were options for such things?
I’m assured the end is nigh. The cement patch is drying in the master bath, and Mike the painter is scheduled to go to town on the walls and cabinets next week.
And the floors are being finished by Jesus (heh-SOOS), himself.
I think we’re in good hands.