Thursday, December 21, 2006

Seriously, there are like ten hot guys here right now.

And they’re all wearing leather tool belts that slightly drag their carhardt khakis just low enough so I can almost see some crack. I love me some carpenter crack. This week has been a most welcomed hurricane of activity and noise. I’ll never again doubt the old axioms “you get what you pay for” or “good things come to those who wait.” We doubted paying a higher premium for a highly recommended contractor because we’re tightfisted little misers who like spending the bank’s money on things like Xbox games and shoes, not new roofs. Neither of us are terribly patient people and we’d all but given up on Mr. 2X4 and his fancy air hammer. But as I’ve said, we waited. And waited. And waited. No sooner did we sign on the dotted line did we hear the sounds of sweet demolition. At 7:00 am.

It’s been nearly one week and this dude is like Bob the Builder on speed. Back porch? Gone. New front room? Framed and usable. Two new rooms downstairs? Framed, wired, heated and dry-walled. Front yard? Leveled to grade. My head? Spinning.

My kids and husband return home from their respective places never knowing what will have changed in the past eight hours. It’s like Christmas every day.

I’m so freaking happy with my noisy dusty mess of a house.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Because I have nothing better to write about.

Construction is underway! Yesterday, our contractor drolly asked if I was ready for some dust, to which I replied “dude, I’ve been ready since August.” Making the Boy and Girl bunk up in one room for the past 4½ months has been maddening at best, and not because they’re misbehaved kids, but because more than anything they’re at an age where personal space is essential to happiness. I know I couldn’t sleep listening to her snore and choke on drool, and trying to relax with him squirming and turning all night would be reason enough to slam my head into the nightstand. He needs a place to build towers of legos and army men, and she needs a place to sing softly as she sets up her dollhouse. Gender stereotypes? I calls it how I sees it. They’re definitely on each others’ nerves and as ready as we are for the Big Remodel.

For the past few months we’ve been planning, estimating, measuring, begging the bank for money, revamping, rethinking, re-estimating, begging the bank for money and waiting. Waiting for this vision we had created on paper to reveal itself in a life sized dream come true. We felt summer’s end and were hopeful. As the colorful leaves fell we believed it would still happen and found patience. We looked at one another across a table bursting with turkey and cranberry sauce and shared doubts. The frost had come and the ground was hardening. Maybe we’ll have to wait for spring? Sweet Jaysus no, we couldn’t outlast the winter one bedroom short. I had to pry my Girl’s teeth out of my Boy’s shoulder twice that day and he’d almost succeeded in drowning her in the toilet just days prior. We stuck to our commitment and met with the bank again and trusted in the force of the front-end loader. Frozen dirt? You are no match for Kubota!

Step One: Rip up big blue smelly carpet, revealing the cold yet mold-free concrete beneath. Add a piece of heat and bake at 350° for two hours.

Step Two: Tell crazy contractor man to have his way with your front lawn.

When he hesitantly asks you why you’re taking so many pictures of him, relieve his fears of contractor negligence documentation and tell him you’re keeping a digital diary of your journey through the land of refinancing and remodeling. And tell him to say cheese.

I’m still cautious with my enthusiasm because the waiting has dulled my sense of reality. I suppose the days of continual pounding that will accompany re-shingling our roof will snap me back into reality in tout suite!

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Thank you for telling me that.

Me: Why are your hands down your butt?

Almost Ten Year Old Boy: Because my butt cheeks are stuck together.


Almost Ten Year Old Boy: I can't get them apart.


Me: Go poop.

Almost Ten Year Old Boy: I think I just have to fart.

Me: Dude, go poop. And use a baby wipe.