Saturday, October 23, 2010

Concussion, Take Me Away*

At work this week, a coworker made the horrendous mistake of asking me how things were going. (Never ask that question to someone deep in the Funk, unless you are prepared for the verbal spewing that might result.) I am so overwhelmed, overwrought and overtired that with just a tiny bit of encouragement, I will (over) share the latest in the horrifying housing situation.

The housing situation, for those of you who don't have the great fortune of knowing me outside this flickering screen, is that we are in the process of fixing up the scary house where I fell through the deck when Hubby was trying to show me how much "potential" the house had. This might be fine--although, honestly, I'm not the visionary that Hubby is and I see not only no "potential" but very little even "salvagable," but still, it might be fine were it not for the ridiculous timeline we suddenly find ourselves on because our landlord is getting ready to put the house we're in on the market, with high hopes and every intention of selling it by January.

The scary house was essentially gutted, or very nearly, by previous fixer-uppers with good intentions--and whatever wasn't already gutted, needed to be due to the house having stood empty for eight or so years. Empty, that is, except for assorted fauna--cats, groundhogs, raccoons, pigeons.

Hubby is gallantly trying to make the most of limited material resources being provided by the house's owner, and in exchange for the labor he's providing (for no cost), we will get rent credit or credit toward a lease-to-own arrangement if the house doesn't continue giving me nightmares after it's finished.

The staircase needed to be completely replaced and due to the meager amount of lumber provided, it needed to be moved as well. As I told my ever-patient coworker, it now turns and for a step or two is under a support beam with clearance of exactly six feet. To her credit my coworker immediately understood the problem.

"Wait--how many of your children are over six feet tall?"

I shook my head and said, "Half. Half my children are over six feet tall."

And then the coworker and I laughed uproariously. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Because the alternative to laughing is to bang my head against a hard surface until the resulting concussion makes it all go away.

*Just like Calgon, but with more cerebral contusions.


  1. Youngest Sister11/1/10, 3:11 PM

    Good luck with it all. I know it's been frustrating (to say the least).

  2. Thanks. I am at the point now where I am dividing my energy about equally between denial (it's not happening), depression (it's happening and it's going to be worse than I can even imagine) and delusion (it might be okay--eventually).