There’s a piece up there, and down here, and over there. See that one on the mantel? Follow a line straight down from there and over about a foot and there’s another one. They’re everywhere - little blue strips of painter’s tape which, to me, say “problem here” or “this needs a touch-up”. Little pieces of tape that, by now, probably have the contractor thinking “would someone please hide that blue damn tape so I can finish up and get out of here.”
Mutual, I’m sure. ‘Cause the longer people are there working, the more dings and scrapes they’re making on my beautiful nacre woodwork- a fact that isn’t making momma happy. And when momma isn’t happy… out comes the blue tape. Are these dots of ceiling paint on the luscious wood floor of my lovely new dining room? Blue tape. Did someone plunk down their hammer and chip the trim on the windowsill in my hasn’t-even-been-cooked-in-yet beautiful kitchen? Blue tape. Surely you didn’t intend to leave that spot unpainted right at eye level as I’m coming down the stairs. Blue tape. Handle loose. Blue tape. Door on crooked. Blue tape. Maybe it would have been easier on all of us if, from day one, I’d hung a big picture of myself, arms crossed, fist clutching a roll of blue tape, with the caption, “DON’T MAKE ME USE THIS!”
Last night I went through with the blue tape yet again. They say this could be their last day. There’s a chance that when I come home today there will be no paint buckets, drop cloths, putty knives, or stained rags to be found. No Bills or Mikes or Dougs or Als to roam my halls, use my bathrooms, or be in my closets. The possibility exists that tomorrow we will awaken in a house devoid of blue tape. There is a God.
March 10, 2009
March 5, 2009
moving in
Ready or not here we come. While the house wasn’t exactly ready for us when we moved in last weekend, we were sure enough ready for it. Even if it has meant crunching around on gritty tile, walking on paper pathways across wood floors, or playing eeny, meeny, miney, moe with boxes in the garage trying to divine which one contains a knife so we don’t have to cut the Sheboygan (our favorite summer sausage and meat of choice for the last 3 nights) with a spoon. Our time with A & T and the lovely Miss B was really a lot of fun, and we will be forever grateful for their hospitality, but Dorothy was right. Grit or no grit, there’s no place like home.
The girls gave the house their blessing this past weekend. They are ecstatic that this has FINALLY been done, and in a way that’s exceeded even their great expectations. “Why didn’t you do this when we lived here?” they demand to know. Hmmm…let me think. Dance lessons? Pom squad? Car insurance? Apartments? Tuition? Theta? I wish we could have done it for you years ago, but sister girls it’s done now; and we expect to see all your shiny faces OFTEN! Just don’t drip on the new wood floors.
Speaking of new wood floors. I knew this whole remodel thing was going way too well. One day the wood was in and looking mahvelous. Then the very next day the tile guy
a. accidentally
b. carelessly
c. asininely (you pick, I know I have)
dragged an old broken-down shopvac with one stuck wheel back and forth across it a few dozen times. Yesterday, after attempts were made to rectify the situation with a little patch kit obviously involving the application of fresh stain, what did I spy with my little eye but little stain paw prints sashaying across the living room floor. Stain prints which, upon immediate closer examination, were found to be shaped EXACTLY like those of Suzie, the cat. But how can I stay mad at a girl who brought me my very own fully grown live robin in her mouth and delivered it to me inside my house only days before? But back to the floor. They're working on it again today, and hopefully they now grasp that it will take more than a piece of blue tape across a doorway to stop a cat like Suzie.
We plan another wave of moving this weekend, and I hope to be eyeballs deep in empty boxes by Sunday. John’s goal, while not quite as lofty, is no less important. He plans to eeny, meeny, miney, moe his way to the box hiding the TV cable.
The girls gave the house their blessing this past weekend. They are ecstatic that this has FINALLY been done, and in a way that’s exceeded even their great expectations. “Why didn’t you do this when we lived here?” they demand to know. Hmmm…let me think. Dance lessons? Pom squad? Car insurance? Apartments? Tuition? Theta? I wish we could have done it for you years ago, but sister girls it’s done now; and we expect to see all your shiny faces OFTEN! Just don’t drip on the new wood floors.
Speaking of new wood floors. I knew this whole remodel thing was going way too well. One day the wood was in and looking mahvelous. Then the very next day the tile guy
a. accidentally
b. carelessly
c. asininely (you pick, I know I have)
dragged an old broken-down shopvac with one stuck wheel back and forth across it a few dozen times. Yesterday, after attempts were made to rectify the situation with a little patch kit obviously involving the application of fresh stain, what did I spy with my little eye but little stain paw prints sashaying across the living room floor. Stain prints which, upon immediate closer examination, were found to be shaped EXACTLY like those of Suzie, the cat. But how can I stay mad at a girl who brought me my very own fully grown live robin in her mouth and delivered it to me inside my house only days before? But back to the floor. They're working on it again today, and hopefully they now grasp that it will take more than a piece of blue tape across a doorway to stop a cat like Suzie.
We plan another wave of moving this weekend, and I hope to be eyeballs deep in empty boxes by Sunday. John’s goal, while not quite as lofty, is no less important. He plans to eeny, meeny, miney, moe his way to the box hiding the TV cable.
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