Here I am – I’ve tidied up my blog and studiously avoided tidying up my home.
Truthfully, I just don’t know where to begin. The downstairs is now open for business, but every heavy piece of old family furniture we put in place is laid with the knowledge that it will have to be uprooted as the workers redo the parquet room by room. And why, you might ask, did we not wait to move downstairs until the parquet was completely finished?
Settle down for the story. I think it’s best explained by the new, sharp worker who came right before the vacation to install all the locks and doorknobs (ah, if only he were a permanent fixture). He noticed that our usual workers had installed the flush in our toilet upside-down. This represents their work ethic fairly accurately – kind and reliable as can be, but a little slow on the uptake. Sir Renaissance overheard him asking the boss rhetorically (with a snort) if there was a necessary company quota for hiring mentally challenged employees.
Anyway, once our beautiful new tek parquet was flooded and warped, the challenged workers went to town to repair it in order to get our bedrooms ready in time for Christmas – ripping the wood up in places and laying down new floorboards, or putting heavy concrete over the bubbles to get them to lie down flat. This meant that the entire floor in all four rooms downstairs was covered with white plaster footprints, which they insured would remain for all posterity by sanding and varnishing the floors without washing the plaster off first. Now we will know what shoe size to get them for next Christmas (at which point I’m sure they’ll still be finishing up one of the projects).
They also came with-pleased-as-punch grins to show us how great the parquet looked compared to post-flood parquet, not noticing that they committed other gaffes like allowing the silver floor insulation to stick out of the baseboards, like someone with toilet paper hanging out of her skirt. Or that they had slopped brown varnish on to the newly painted white walls because it never occurred to them to put masking tape along the border.
Learning that we were not, in fact, pleased, they assured us that there are no problems, only solutions. But I don’t think they realize that solutions involve unmounting complicated beds that barely squeeze through the doors with our low ceilings, or that old furniture weighs more than modern Ikea stuff, and is going to involve relieving it of all its contents first. I’m guessing it won’t be a problem for them.
So I hesitate to “nest”. I don’t care if we stick the dryer on top of the washer and leave less counter space to fold clothes on, or if we hide our filing cabinets by turning them into a bench to remove our shoes in the entrance. I don’t care if the kitchen is spotless (okay, folks who know me will say that is not unusual) because we don’t have enough space to put things in anyway. I don’t care if we put a big comfy couch in the living room or a hard leather sofa with matching chairs. We’re living in flux anyway – no part of life is tied up in a neat little bow. I just want to be settled.
And still have money in the bank.
And … pass my driver’s license.
And get a spot for Petit Prince in the nursery. Is that all too much to ask?
So Sir noticed that I’m a little dark and broody lately. Young Lady patted my head in sympathy and said, “Poor mommy. She’s tired!” And Young Knight has been hoping that by raising the frequency and decibel level of his pleas, he will be able to cut through the cocoon of my woes – all to no avail. Until I snap out of my funk (tomorrow, probably, when I have to start thinking of our New Year’s Eve party), I’m going to go lose myself in watching something on tv.
Where there are no problems, only solutions.
* This post originally appeared in my former blog, Perfect Welcome, and may contain some modifications or discrepancies in the names or comments.
[…] am adept. Learning that we were not, in fact, pleased, they assured us that there are no problems, only […]