Come Back, Little Shithead

Patty the cat has disappeared. It happened sometime yesterday when the finishing guy was here doing the final fixes and touch ups for the remodel. The last day that people would be invading the house and taking over large parts of it.

Normally, when workers arrived, she would head upstairs and hide in a closet or behind furniture. In the last week or so, I would see her first thing in the morning, then she would disappear during the day and finally show up on the stairs around 6 p.m.

Last night, she didn't come down. This morning, she was nowhere to be found. The only thing I can think of is the fix-it guy (who had his gear set up in the entry) had the front door open, Patty wandered down, got spooked by something and bolted out the door.

We had made it through. When I made the final payment on the remodel job last night, I was so relieved that these people wouldn't be coming back. And on the last day of the insanity, Patty makes the decision (whether ruminated or instinctive) to take off. She had no idea this was the day we got our house back.

At present, the front door is open wide enough to accommodate the entry of a returning cat. I've made up posters and put them up in the immediate area, but I'm not holding out a lot of hope. Patty is terrified of strangers, and hiding and fleeing are her only real defenses. She has no knowledge of streets and cars, or dogs or other cats, for that matter.

I am devastated. She was the one source of concern and affection I had available on a daily basis. After having Marcel put to sleep, it was pretty much she and I. Now I am quite literally left alone in my house.

It seems to me like God has been taking things from me: my career, my husband, my home, and now my only remaining companion. Now I am going this totally alone. The house is now empty, and my only work left is emptying it more, making it look less like the home I've shared for nearly a decade.

The door will remain open, even in the evenings, until I go to sleep. I trust that the security gate will keep out the worst of intruders, and I can only imagine how Patty would feel if she recognized the door but couldn't get in. It's really the only hope I have left, and it doesn't feel too promising.

So I will motivate myself to do more packing, keep myself busy and hope for the best. I imagine the moment when I will hear her meow again as she trots through the door. But I have a sinking feeling that I won't be needing the Pet Tube for the drive to Wisconsin.

I keep dreading the thought that, having gotten worse, things aren't going to get better; that there will be another set of losses for me before I get the house sold and move on with my life. It's not a happy feeling by far, and is yet more fecal matter through which I must wade on the way to the rest of my life.

And in two days is the sixth anniversary of Steve's and my wedding. That will be another fun day to get through.

Don't Push the River

Fritz Perls had a saying: Don't push the river, it flows by itself. I'm taking his advice.

When the remodel adventure began back on June 18, contractor Roni promised the job would be completed by July 14; "Maybe even before Fourth of July," he had said, but I knew that was probably unrealistic. And it was.

Here it is, Aug. 3, and the painters are still touching up work they've done. There are just a handful of things left to do, and it seems like it's taking forever to get them finished. Roni is quickly failing his goal of me referring everyone to him because he's so good at what he does and I was so happy with the remodel experience.

The problem. Miguel has remedied it.

It's Sunday and Carmen and Miguel are here, doing the final paint fixes. They were upset because when I called Ronnie on Thursday to explain that Miguel had plastered the pendant light's faceplate into the kitchen ceiling, making it impossible to get the screws out. I requested that either he or Sam be here to explain to Miguel what he needed to do.

Roni never called me back. Instead, he called their boss (his subcontractor) who then called Carmen and yelled at her because I was upset (according to her, she hung up on him when he started spewing the F word). In any case, they thought I was angry with them when my real irritation is the lack or organization and management of the job.

In all this, I am coming to the conclusion that Miguel, while a sterling fellow, is not terribly bright; that fact, combined with the breakdown in bilingual communications, has caused the major headaches and goofs on this job. Once he understands the situation and what is being requested, he goes out of his way to do the right things and do them well.

These are the folks who have been working their butts off on this job. They are pressuring me to come in on weekend days to do the extra work to get the job done. It's all flowing in its own time, and freaking about about it won't change the situation.

I just want to get the job done. It's very disruptive to everything I have to accomplish (which in itself is also inherently disruptive) in getting the house ready to show and my stuff ready for storage and moving. I simply have to have people stop coming through and taking over the house. I need time to
clean and pack items not included in the home staging, and still I run across things every now and then that set off emotional bombs for me. The process needs time and patience and privacy.

I really have to process my feelings about each item. It reminds me of the end of "Torch Song Trilogy," when Harvey Fierstein embraces an object from each of the people he loves/has loved. I imagine needing to do that with an item: does it feel weird or natural? Is this something that will comfort me in days to come, or is it simply more leftovers of Steve and my life with him that need to be left in the past?

Certainly I have to keep some things to remind me of Steve, but an item or two, things that bring a smile to my face even now. He should be happy enough that I'm dragging his cremains halfway across the continent with me; that's as much a reminder as anyone needs.

The days have been hot and muggy. A high-pressure dome sitting over the four-corners region circulates clockwise, pulling up lots of tropical storm remnants from the Gulf of Mexico and dumping all that moisture into the Southwest. It's been sprinkling off and on since about 11 o'clock last night, but the skies are starting to clear this afternoon. It by no means relieved the  current drought.

I've been training Patty (the cat) to go out with me and spend time on the patio. She appreciates the outside space (which has a 6-foot privacy fence around it), and has come to enjoy it. She goes out when I go out, and she comes back in when I do. That last part took a couple of tries to get understood, but now she's the first one to hop though the door when it's time to go inside, almost like a compliant dog. But this rain has thrown her for a loop.

We were on the patio last night when it started raining; barely sprinkling, just a couple drops on the ground. Patty was sitting near the door, waiting to go in when she jumped like she had been electrocuted: a raindrop had fallen on her. She looked around in alarm and jumped again as another made a direct hit on top of her head. All of a sudden, she's pawing at the door, yowling to get inside. I let her in, and she sat and watched me outside and the rain falling (of course, I was under the umbrella).

Saturday I drove down to Irvine to visit Jessie and see her new place. All I can say is it's all very Irvine. (For those of you who don't know, Irvine is a planned community south of Santa Ana in Orange County: think "The Stepford Wives" meets "Poltergeist".) Jessie's place is in a warren of apartment buildings (a single development) with serpentine access, both via car and on foot, to the hundreds of apartments designed like boxes that don't look like boxes.

Birthday cookies!

I'm being a little unfair now, but it's odd to see my best bohemian friend (BBF) in such button-down surroundings. At present she's feeling the pressure of everything being new and strange. Although she'll pull through the culture shock soon enough, I could tell she really appreciated a visit from a an old friend.

And she gave me a birthday present (well, a couple, actually). First was a framed photo of her and me at Andy's Diner. Second was two tubs filled with homemade cookies (enough to bathe in, I commented via text.) When I opened the tub, I took this picture and texted it to her. Her reply: "Blogtime!" So I have included it here to scoop her on this mundane publication of idiocy.

This longterm disruption of the home has really thrown my routine (such as it was) for a loop, and there are things that need to get done, calls that need to be made, and I don't have any real battle plan to get it all back to a cycle. So I'm reduced to picking up the loose ends as I see them dangle and hope that I don't forget anything—or anyone—important.

Never Stop Starting

Saturday was a ninja run for Kittie and David. They came down Saturday morning, arrived early afternoon, and David was immediately jumping onto the handyman tasks around the house. Time was short, as we had tickets to see Cousin Robin in a new play at the Odyssey Theater Saturday evening.

It was a good show, the premiere production of the script, and Robin was brilliant, as usual. We stopped at a local watering hole near the theater for drinks afterward, and it was so very pleasant to sit down and talk theater with someone who respects my theatrical talents and insights as much as I respect hers.

We got back to Pasadena around 12:30, and Kittie and David were off and heading back north by 8 a.m. Sunday. It was the quickest trip they've made down here ever.

The Thursday afternoon prior, the electrician had come by and installed the pendant lamp over the sink in the kitchen. He also made quick work of hooking up the three-way switches that eluded both David and myself the weekend before. The place is coming together, with only a few things left on the remodel contract to finish. I also started, for real, to clean and pack items for the move.

This Tuesday was my birthday. I did go out and get a small cake in celebration. My sister Kittie called me in the evening to wish me a Happy Birthday, but beyond that, the day went uncelebrated (although I didn't do any work and didn't take any work calls for the day).

Tuesday afternoon, Roni called and said he was going to stop by. Sam was the one who actually showed up, and I went over the list of final items that needed to be done. The trim around the bottom of the new countertops seemed to stump him, as though there was nothing wrong. I made him get down and look at the edge of the finish on the cabinet, and he finally acquiesced that it needed something. I showed him all the other things on my list. (It helps to have contractors' eyes look at the work, as both Doug and Bob pointed out things that weren't up to snuff that I hadn't even noticed.)

Sam hummed and hawed like I was asking an awful lot, then scheduled Carmen and the painters back today at 9 a.m. I got a call about 10, saying Carmen wasn't coming until 1 p.m., which was fine by me. When she showed up at 2, I walked through the house and showed her the finishing paint work, which includes a couple fairly large touch-ups (a poorly plastered crack along the office ceiling and a poorly painted ceiling in the bedroom). The one I'm really looking forward to is having the ceiling around the sink light finished off (which they are working on presently).

Yesterday (Wednesday) was the closest thing to a workday that I've had in a long time. Folks at Electric Power Group must like my work, because I got a request for a simple Photoshop job (sub out a screen image in a photo of a monitor) from yet a third person there. It was simple, just about 30 minutes work, but it was nice to have someone shooting out a project and me turning it around fast. (They are also incredibly fast pays, with a check being cut the same week they received their first two invoice.

Also, Kelly at the chamber was e-mailing me on Tuesday about three ads that are already sold for the 2015 chamber directory, which they've asked me to design once again this year. I was very up front with Paul (the chamber CEO) about the fact that I might be packing and moving just about the time the directory is shaping up (October/November), but that didn't deter him. I just wanted to make sure that there was someone in the wings they could hand the job off to if I was unable to finish it up and get moved out at the same time.

This time around I've set up an e-mail account specifically for the directory, so that all the ad copy and artwork and revisions and approvals will be sent to a separate address. As Kelly sells and the design work picks up, I'll be busier than the rest of the year put together. I remember the insanity of putting the book together last year, starting in earnest the week before Steve died, and having to deal with the insanity of having proofs, corrections and all the rest flying around at the last minute. It was bad enough to deal with that while I was mourning; I'm not sure I could deal with it if I'm moving at the same time (at some point I'll have to unhook the computer, which will effectively stop the work).

I've designed labels for the moving boxes: I'm using regular mailing labels, since I have a lot of those, and putting "LA CROSSE," "STORAGE," "DONATION" and "FRAGILE" in big letters. I also have a printed contents label, with room to write the room from which the items came and a space to list what types of items are inside. This should really help me organize things.

I don't think I've had a longer things-to-do list in my life. Everywhere I turn there are things unfinished, unpacked, unsorted, uncleaned, that need to be dealt with, organized, and put in a proper place for dispensation to the proper destination. It was making me crazy until I realized, on my birthday, no less, that the best way to deal with this is a line from "Mildred Pierce": "Never go in or out with an empty tray."

Mildred may have been referring to restaurant serving, but the same applies to any major disaster area: everything's out of place, so whenever you move from one place to another, take something with you and move it one step closer to where it ultimately will end up. This way, any movement you make becomes part of the move.

Cleaning, sorting and boxing is being handled at the dining room table, so grab one or two things, take them with you on the way to the kitchen and drop them off at the table. The same applies to moving from the kitchen into the rest of the house. When I have some time, I sit down and start cleaning and bubble-wrapping items for the storage boxes.

The biggest thing I have to face, besides our wedding anniversary next Friday, is the fact that, as of the moment I decided to sell the house, nothing has a home anymore. All the places things lived here are now space to be inspected by potential buyers. All the objects that have lived here have to leave, including me, and make way for The Sale.

Carmen and her crew are busy downstairs. I've given up trying to check up on the work. If there is something I want to communicate, there is no way of knowing if they actually understood: They just smile and nod their head and say, "Si," and there's no guarantee that they got a single word I said. If there is unsatisfactory work, I simply will foist it off on the "finishing guy," who will accompany Roni is checking out the job and doing the final touches. Then they can have their final payment.

Red on Red, Green on Green, White on White, Black on Yellow

July 13, 2014

After 20 days of hot summer weather, I finally went out and bought a thermostat to replace the old one. It got taken off the wall during the painting of the stairwell, and I couldn't find a thermostat for sale in a brick-and-mortar store to save my life. Sears did not have them. Best Buy did not have them. OSH did not have them.

Could have ordered hundreds online with next-day delivery to the store. Of course, I'd have to drive 20 miles each way to get to the store (Home Depot or Lowes). Then, while online yesterday, I took a chance and just entered "thermostat, pasadena, ca."

Lots of repair and installation services popped up and then, Target.

I am not really big on Target, but I will say that the local store has amazing selection (including a supermarket now) and, by gum, after asking three or four store employees, I actually found the wall thermostats, and the one I was looking for was there.

So I went home and read through the instructions over a sandwich, then took about half an hour uninstalling the old one (which was still wired into the wall) and replaced it. It was really rather straightforward: Pull the old wires and label them with the connection they made on the old thermostat (red on red, green on green, white on white and, for some reason, black on yellow). A couple mollies in the wall, connect the wires to the base plate, screw it to the wall, then pop on the new thermostat.

It's programmable. I searched and searched the instruction booklet to find out how to just turn the damn thing on, never mind programming it for seven days of temperature cycles.

Found out how to do that. By this time I'm sweltering, sweat rolling into my eyes. Finally, I got it to turn on and blessed cool air has been my reward for the last hour. And right about now is when I usually open up the house and let the cool evening breezes take over. But just a little while longer with the cool manmade breeze before I open up.

July 24, 2014

Weeks whip by. It seems just yesterday that Kittie and David were down here helping with the remodel with Dave doing a lion's share of the work. We got all the door handles swapped out, the kitchen pulls installed, most of the light fixtures up, and got started on separating/packing stuff for the final clean up.

Of course, Kittie and David left on Sunday (four days ago), but it seems like only yesterday they were here. They're planning a "ninja run" (down to visit and back in 24 hours) this Saturday not just to check my progress, but also to take in cousin Robin's new play at the Odyssey Theater.

On Tuesday, the stair guy showed up to finish off the stair work. Didn't happen. Still have the upstairs thresholds and the stair edge caulking to finish.

This afternoon the electrician is here, putting in the three-way switches (since neither Dave nor I could figure out which wires went where without a voltmeter) and putting up the pendant light over the kitchen sink.

Then next week, Roni will come by with the "finishing guy," who I assume will take care of all the "little things" that are left. (I don't consider replastering a crack in the office ceiling or repainting the bedroom ceiling as "little," but there you have it.

Luckily, I've had Doug and Bob over to check out the work, and they spotted stuff that I had overlooked, so the finish list has gotten a little longer.

Next Tuesday is my 61st birthday. It would be a nice present to have all this work done and have my house back, so that I can sell it to someone else.

Eradication of an Inconvenience

Marcel the cat in silkier, shinier days.

Marcel the cat had an appointment with the infinite today. I made it myself, coaxed him into the cat carrier, took him over to the vets and had him killed. I have to say it that way in order to connect it with the guilt I'm feeling about it. And all this over a cat that I really never liked and he never liked me.

Oh, I developed a warm spot for him in my heart. But he was a biter and a scratcher, and it had to be his way to no way at all. When he would hop up onto the couch to sit next to me, I always made sure there was an obstacle between us, because even placing a paw on my leg could result in his talon-like claws sinking into my flesh.

On the whole, our relationship was a standoff. I can remember how shocked Steve was when I whacked Marcel upside the head the first time he bit me. "If he wants to find out who's boss," I told Steve, "I'm more than happy to show him. And I'll always win, because I'm bigger and smarter, have opposing thumbs and consumer purchasing power."

It took Marcel about two or three years to realize I was not just an interloper in his world. It took him less time to realize that I, unlike Steve, would not put up with his blitzkrieg of biting and slashing out.

As you can see in the photos, he was once a handsome cat, black fur shining. Those who had encountered him in recent months knew about the matted fur on his haunches (he stopped bathing about the time Steve left the house after his fall last September). And after Steve died, Marcel realized that I was the only human on the planet that gave two shakes about him.

I fed him and watered him and cleaned his cat box and brushed him (but only the places he wanted brushed) and made "his chair," where he spent the majority of his time, a soft and comfortable place. When he started peeing and dumping just anywhere he wanted, I was concerned. During the remodel, I dragged the litter box up into the office, along with food and water, so he would not be disturbed by the workers. Then he started throwing up his food about 50 percent of the time. I would chalk it up to all the hubbub of the remodel, except they were rarely upstairs. On top of everything else, it seemed like Marcel was beginning to unwind.

I keep mulling the decision over in my head: Did he really have to die? Well, no cat rescue place I called would take him. The Pasadena Humane Society wouldn't take him because he wasn't adoptable. No one I knew wanted him. He had spent his entire existence being a feline island unto himself, and at the end of his life his isolation was complete. Even Patty, the younger cat, was hesitant and cautious around him, because he would lash out at her (especially since she's getting the attention and affection he wants but I am unwilling to risk proffering).

When I filled out the authorization form at the vet's, I noted that Marcel's birth year was 1997. I was floored. That makes him 17 years old. I've never had a cat last more than 14 years. It made me realize that he'd had a good run, and it was all the more reason I could not drag him a couple thousand miles in the car, cooped up with Patty, and expect him to survive with any sanity left.

On the throw that protects furniture from those claws.

The biggest problem with Marcel, though, was shedding. Especially since he had stopped grooming himself, clumps of fur would fall off him, even though I brushed him daily. I could vacuum the entire house and, within an hour or two, the clumps of hair would start showing up, clinging to the carpet, skittering in a puff of air along the bamboo floors. How could I show the house with cat hair and the smell of fresh cat excrement and urine permeating the air? I'm still rationalizing the death. I'm still asking Steve for forgiveness.

Marcel's favorite hobby was to eat this own hair clumps off the floor or off the rug. He would not take the time or effort to clean himself, you understand, but once he had deposited hair in his environment, all of a sudden he was preoccupied with it. It really bugged me, too, because Patty has taken up the same behavior. Maybe I'll get her some cat grass (which Marcel loved because it made him puke on the spot).

So now I can unfurl the PetTube I purchased for Patty's ride in the back seat to Wisconsin. When I opened it up the first time, Marcel immediately went inside it and pissed all over, then went and dumped in the corner of the bedroom, then pissed all over the paper the painters had put down to protect the carpeting. That, I believe, was my breaking point; that, on top of the stress of having these PEOPLE wandering through my house, leaving the doors wide open, flies buzzing in and out.

We couldn't have the remodel in the autumn, winter or spring, when opening the house doesn't mean having a sauna to live in for the next four weeks. That kind of misery only happens in the hot summer months. And here they are. I just hope this doesn't end up with me trying to drive cross country in the winter months. That would not be fun.

In any case, my most unpleasant chore of the process of selling this house is over: Marcel is with his maker and, if you believe in animal souls, is up in heaven clawing and biting Steve, both of them happy to be reunited again.

Gees: Do I Follow the Light or Not?

"Poltergeist" was on the other evening. I started watching, to count the number of times they say "Carol Ann" in the movie (it's a lot). And as I watched, I realized poor Carol Ann has the same dilemma I do: Do you walk into the light or do you stay away from the light to get where you're going?

Certainly, there's a light at the end of the tunnel for the remodel. After a three-day weekend to decompress from the daily home invasion, I'm feeling much more centered. And Roni came over this morning and went through the house with me. I pointed out stuff that needed touching up/correction, and he was very adamant: "After all is through and the kitchen is in, we go around and fix every little thing that's not right."

So the overall impression taken away from our meeting this morning: The painting will be done this week (I would think in the next two or three days). Then, next week, the kitchen countertop, sink and faucet are installed, then the walk-through with the finishing crew, who will make everything pretty and shiny new. Hopefully, this will all happen before Kittie and David come down for the weekend, so I can employ them in handy tasks around the house.

From out of the blue, the company wanting the newsletter design dropped an e-mail today with lots of stuff for inclusion in the first newsletter. It's all about power grid system control software, so I have absolutely no idea what they're talking about. It's kind of a challenge when they're expecting me to find pictures and graphics to complement the copy. I'm putting something together for them, and I'll have it to them by Wednesday, for sure. It does feel nice to be working on something new and refreshing, even if I don't understand the content of the piece.

Carmen and Miguel Angel are here today. They put a second coat on the bedroom, and I'm hoping that Miguel will get to the kitchen ceiling before they leave, as I'd like to see it once it's taped and mudded and ready for primer and paint. Also, once they get the kitchen painted, things are pretty much finished in the paint department, and I can start putting up the new lights and switching out the hardware. Also there is separating out what goes to storage and what goes into staging the place.

One thing I have finally done is schedule an appointment to kill Marcel. I've tried softer descriptions such as putting him to sleep, putting him down, but my emotional response (and my guilt levels) require me to be honest and say I'm killing the cat because (fill in the blank with any of a dozen reasons why he cannot be a part of this next phase of my life). It's very sad that he had only one person in the world that would tolerate his crap, and to all others he gave no quarter. When that person left, Marcel didn't quite know how to approach me. Now I had to be his friend, because I provided for him, and he knew I wouldn't put up with his bullshit. But I don't like him and he doesn't like me.

So the two of us developed a pact: I fed him and made sure he had water and a clean litter box. I petted him when I could and brushed him when he let me. But, beyond the shedding and yowling and arthritis and filthy matted fur and deafness, I just don't want him in my life. And when he started dumping and pissing anywhere he felt like, a line was crossed: Hard to sell a home when there's fresh cat shit in the corners and the rugs smell like cat piss. So Thursday, 2:30 p.m., Marcel goes in for his final shot.

But I'm feeling guilty because Steve left him behind, and I feel like I should take care of him, no matter how old he gets, how much pain he's in, how unruly is he or how much he drives me up the walls. But I must realize: I did not marry the cat.

Also, I realize that Steve had no allusions about my lack of affection for Marcel, or Marcel's lack of affection for me (for the first two years I lived here, he would lope by and look up at me with an expression that said, "Haven't you left yet?"). But, for me, Marcel's absence is going to make keeping the house clean and tidy so much simpler. And when I think of trying to take both cats cross country in the car, I realize there's no way I want to attempt that; traveling with one will be more than challenging for me.

Speaking of traveling with the cat, I have been scouring the Internet trying to find a back-seat cage for Patty. I don't want her to spend three days in a carrier, so I was looking at alternatives and found this amazing PetTube. It expands to fill the entire back seat, so she'll have lots of room. I unfurled it to let the cats have a look at it, and Marcel had pissed in it within an hour. After I cleaned that up, I collapsed the tube flat and won't bring it out until it's just Patty here. I want her to get use to it as a playhouse type structure (toys inside, maybe hidden treats), so it's not so threatening when she's inside it in the car.

I hear cleaning and packing up behavior below. Carmen and Miguel Angel are taking off now. The bedroom look fabulous. She apologized for not getting to the kitchen yet, but I told her not to worry. They do good work, and as long as all the work gets done well, I'm a patient man.

So the afternoon/evening is mine from here on out. I'm almost at the point where I'm going out and purchasing a new thermostat so I can install it and turn the air conditioning on! But the day is cooling off back into the upper 70s, so there's no immediate need. Maybe tomorrow.

I must remember to give Marcel some tuna Wednesday evening, as it's his favorite (tuna, nor Wednesday).

Holiday Heart

It is a puzzlement. Consternation turns to elucidation.

Carmen left about an hour ago. No work for three days. Quiet. Solitude. Hot damn! I feel as good as the place is starting to look.

The bedroom is done. The office is done. The upstairs bathroom is done. The stairwell is done. The entry is done. The living room is done. All is still disarray and gypsum dust pervades, but there is a quieting voice inside me: They will never be in your bedroom again. They will never be in the office again.

From here on out, it's all limited to the kitchen and numerous DIY projects I am fully capable of doing. The disorientation, anxiety and frustration of the last week have started to melt away as the new look emerges. And it's really cool. I wish Steve could have seen it.

I churned up some soda ice water with my SodaStream and sat back on the not-half-as-cluttered-today patio, as it is cooler outside. I've been living without air conditioning for two weeks now; it started as a hassle, but as long as I have a fan, I'm good. So, I lean back and wait for Roni.

I called Roni this morning and arranged to have him drop by to discuss the unfinished stuff on the job (and also the second payment is due). During the call, he said the sink I wanted wouldn't be delivered until the 14th or 15th, which is just fine with me (to his surprise, I think). He said he'd drop by as soon after 5 as he could.

The delay on the kitchen doesn't bother me: I wanted to have a couple of days to clean up and sort, once again, through donations, things to be stored, things to be tossed, and now, things to be used in the staging of the house (and then shipped with the stored stuff). With the house pre-staged, it will be easier for the cleaning women (the Gang of Four, I call them) to make it sparkle once the kitchen install is finished. And I splurged on a really nice white-and-beige rug that will make everything pop.

So I'm sipping my seltzer on the patio and Roni calls: traffic is horrible, he doesn't know if he can get here, can we get together first thing tomorrow morning and meet about this (are you kidding?)

I told him what I told Carmen as she left: No work on Friday (Independence Day!) She told me her boss was pushing them to finish today, and that just wasn't going to happen. There is significant drywall work on the kitchen ceiling before they can paint. Roni (like Carmen did) asked how about Saturday? Sunday? These new immigrants: they just don't get the concept of the three-day weekend holiday.

The electrician came today, which had been foretold by Sam. I'm guessing the guy is Russian or Lithuanian, not just because of the accent, but he and his assistant had that dour East European fatalism toward everything and everyone. He put the new ceiling fan in the bedroom (which I've done without since Miguel #3 broke the old one over a week ago). The electrician also installed the safety plugs in the kitchen and bathrooms, and the stairwell light, which is about 12 feet above the landing floor.

As for the sconce down the garage stairs, he checked and would have to start tearing open walls to rewire the circuit, so that was nixed. I also decided to forego the recessed light, and leave the simple white cylinder pair presently hanging up there. With the clean white ceiling, they fit in with the new look of the place. And it saves money, too.

So although I have three days ahead of me, digging through piles in every room and closet in the house, cleaning each thing as I box it, I'm feeling happy. I've been wanting to start the process all week, but the piles just migrated from one room to another. Dusting has been a non-concept up to now. Hopefully, it is now an emerging possibility.

So consternation turns to elucidation, and for the first time in days I feel like I will survive this. And with the DIY stuff, it's all puttering kinds of things, so a few at a time is not a problem. In fact, I'm coordinating a DIY day for a weekend when Kittie and David come down to visit. I've invited Bob McBroom over, as well, and hopefully the two handyman heavyweights, along with their sincere assistants, can tear through most of it in a single day.

So here I am and it looks like my goal of getting the house listed the first week in August is still a very good possibility. This is getting more real by the hour.

Happy Independence Day. Blow up something colorful to celebrate!