Man and his brother were supposed to be re-wiring our house today.
It’s a 500-square foot saltbox a mere 20 feet from water’s edge. It’s old, and we went in to it knowing it needed more than a facelift – we’re talking tummy-tuck, lipo and bum job.
We peeled eight layers of wallpaper from two layers of wallboard. We tore up carpet. We tore down walls. I made mini scale models of our furniture to rearrange on paper floor plans as a way to ease my nesting instinct as I count down the days until D-Day: 11 weeks, 6 days and counting.
But today, there was going to be progress! There was going to be wires and boxes and maybe even a wall or two framed out!
Then I made the mistake of calling from work, just to say hello.
Me: “Hi, Honey! How are things going?”
Me: “What are you working on?”
Him: “Redesigning. We’ve noticed a few structural problems.”
Me: “…Tell me more.”
Him: “The ceiling beams between the sink and the bathroom are unsupported. There’s nothing keeping them up.”
Him: “So we’re going to have to put a header in there.”
Him: “And the floor of the bedroom is pretty bouncy. We’re going to move the stairs. It will give us more space for the bedroom and family room upstairs.”
Him: “And it will make the living room… cozier.”
Me: “There’s a lovely house for sale in the next town…”
Apparently this “minor” change of plans will only set us back two days. I wish I believed him. Man’s brother likes to think things through a LOT. I suspect I’ll be getting the second, third and forth revision of our floor plans by the time I get home.
Did I mention it's deadline day and half our office is out for funerals and family obligations?
I really shouldn't have called.