My hope that the Great Renovation Project would end today proved to be a vain and silly one. Despite starting at nearly the crack of dawn, the work crew that I’d spoken so highly of a day or two ago, is only moderately beyond the point they reached yesterday. I optimistically noted that we now have a sink. True, but only in the sense that it’s here; it has yet to be installed. Many of the cabinets are now in place, but half don’t even have doors. There is no counter top. A breakfast bar, most of which was installed yesterday, is likewise topless.
So for those who arrived late, my kitchen has no water, no sink, no functioning stove, and no countertops. I can neither cook nor wash, and someone went home thinking that this was somehow all right.
What really irritates me the most out of all of this mess is the lack of water in the kitchen. Admittedly, that required a bit more work as the piping was old, but that work was actually completed a day ago. Worse, the work crew left us in this state for a weekend, meaning, that – if lucky – the earliest we’ll have a functioning sink is three days from now.
Thank goodness we do not have children. I couldn’t believe my ears when I learned the condition in which the kitchen was left. I wasn’t present when the exchange took place, but the Little Woman told me that she practically begged the crew to finish as much as they could tomorrow morning. The chief refused because, according to what she told me, today is his wife’s birthday, and he intended to get drunk tonight. So drunk, he added, that he doubted he’d be fit to do any work tomorrow.
When she told me this, I laughed. I mean, what else could I do?
So the project that was to take four days has now been extended to seven. Still not the fourteen originally forecast, but given that nothing will happen for two of those seven days, it’s still not acceptable. I am trying to keep a positive face on all of this, but it means that one of us will likely have to miss a day of work – all because some guy wants to get drunk tonight.
Forgive me, but I don’t think that’s right.
Stopped at a store with the intention of grabbing a few groceries.
It’s been a difficult day, and I’m not exactly in a good frame of mind. As I entered the store, there is a space between the outer and inner doors where they keep the shopping carts. Well, as soon as I’d come through the outer doors, I went directly to the carts, and pulled one free. As soon as I did, however, a nicely dressed woman snatched the cart from me, gave me a smug smirk, and walked off.
My inner monologue minced no words. “Wait, hold up! What the hell?”
Okay I’m lying. My inner monologue is far more profane that normal me, and it would never say anything as tame as that. I was pissed that some stranger, with nary a word, just took my cart as if she were entitled to that cart. There were a hundred or so carts there – she didn’t need mine. I wasn’t blocking the others; she was just a lazy b**** who felt she should have what she wanted when she wanted it. Well, my inner monologue wanted me to confront the woman for her brazen act, and to say something to wipe that smirk right off of her face. I was down for that – at this point, there was little else for me to lose, so I’ll do it.
Except that there’s a seven-second delay between my inner monologue and that part of my brain that actually carries out such deeds. By the time I was coordinated enough to take care of my bid-ness, the woman – and my cart – were both memories, having vanished behind the safety of the inner doors. I never saw her again, either because we were headed in opposite directions, or because the offensiveness of her actions finally registered, and she sensed what my inner monologue wanted me to do. I should add here that I cannot recall – ever – having vocally referred to a woman by the B-word, so it’s obvious that the connection between my inner monologue and my fingers is working just fine.
In the year AD 9, a Roman legion was destroyed in a battle with Germanic tribes at Teutonburgwald, in modern Germany. The commander, Quintus Varus, was killed, and the sacred eagles – the embodiment of the legion and of Rome’s military authority, were taken. The Emperor Augustus, not too far off from his seventieth birthday, allegedly suffered a breakdown when informed of the news. It wasn’t easy to defeat a Roman legion; to claim the complete destruction of one was unprecedented, but the loss of the eagles represented a humiliation for Rome. According to tradition, Augustus recovered, but he never overcame his sadness over the defeat. When angry or stumped by some challenge, he would pull on his hair and exclaim, “Quintus Varus, give me back my eagles!”
I’m starting to feel the same way about my sink.