My time is not my own

This is literally the first time I sat down long enough to write since Friday. It’s non-stop around here. Now that the captain’s back, he decided to tear up the bathroom that’s attached to our bedroom. A few years ago we were playing around with faux finishes and had some fun working together to paint the walls with what at the time we felt was an interpretation of our Anza Borrego desert hikes. Soon after that, we each individually came to the conclusion that it looked like the third level of hell.

That reminds me that the first time we ever went hiking there, it was the Palm Canyon trail, I think he was secretly planning to kill me, ‘cos I was wearing all black, no hat, and it was about 108 degrees (really) and we only packed a small bottle of water. There’s a sign at the trailhead that warns of deaths every year on that particular hike. Even tho I think I’m in pretty good shape,  I started to exhibit all the classic signs of heat stroke within about twenty minutes. I was panting, my face was bright, bright red, and I was becoming dizzy and disoriented. Of course we turned back (he wasn’t really trying to kill me, or was he?) I soaked my head in water and we turned on the air conditioning to bring down my temp, and I drank the gallon of water I should have been drinking as we walked. It was touch and go; I could have gone to the ER, but I recovered. Good times, y’all. Lesson learned, we are very well prepared now for our hikes with all the proper gear and enough fluids to stay well hydrated.

Excuse me, I was just called to help move the toilet out of the bathroom. First we were just going to repaint. Then he decided to replace the flooring–and the shower–and refinish the cabinets–and replace the 1968 cultured marble countertop. The flooring had to be pulled up, now he’s ruining my life with a belt sander on the subfloor to get it level for our new bamboo-type flooring. Dust everywhere, I mean everywhere, even tho the room is sealed and he’s wearing an industrial respirator. This is the staging area for everything I need to clean individually that’s covered in dust. More good times!

He’s condemned that bathroom; it’s off limits until the job’s done, and I had to cart everything upstairs to the other bathroom. I feel like a visitor in my own home. Oh what fun, here comes another boring trip to Home Depot when all I want to do is stroll through the climate controlled atmosphere of South Coast Plaza and lust after my Chanel handbag.

Over the weekend, we attempted to help my brilliant academically proficient child learn how to deal with the mundane details of every day life and buy a good used car and not get taken advantage of.  Maybe it’s my fault, well, of course it is, because I did do everything for him as long as he was pulling 4.8s in high school and at the top of his classes in college; I was (still am) his maid, cook, driver, intermediary in all things business related, and all he had to do was be the best scholar he could be nothing. Which means that at the age of (cough cough) 31, he hasn’t had very much experience in the real world with real world situations. Talk about ivory tower! All day long the captain’s been schooling him in the right things to say to people on Craigslist. Title, is it clear? Make sure it’s not a salvage title. Registration, is it up-to-date? When was it smogged? Does the owner have the service records? Is it a one owner car or has it been passed around like a used condom? (That was obviously not me; too Merchant Marine-y) Any oil leaks? Then don’t get it! He’s a very trusting child and we are trying to do our best to protect him.  We’ve always tried to protect and shield him from anything unpleasant, even from the very first moment, I hated to hear him cry because it would break my heart so I learned to anticipate all of his needs. I changed his diaper the moment he soiled it, I fed him before he experienced any discomfort, and I comforted him as soon as he exhibited any signs at all of sadness. Oh well. If his only complaint in life is that his mom loved him too much, that’s a tough cross to bear. Oh, add to that never being allowed to have cereal with sugar in it. Poor kid. I’m not a Tiger Mom, I’m a Smother Mother!

I need to clear up any misunderstanding about the pix of my kitchen after baking and cooking in it all day: that’s NOT its normal appearance in case y’all thought I needed a health inspector to visit me! Here’s the way it looks now and most of the time, OK? Most of the time you could literally eat off the floor. Spotless tile, spotless floor!! The random pieces of tape you see were waiting to get used to seal off the bathroom door so the entire house wouldn’t be covered in three feet of dust.




9 thoughts on “My time is not my own

  1. You got quite a few chuckles out of me on this post!
    So, uh… I guess you haven’t practiced “detachment parenting” just yet. (*grin*) I admit, it’s easier to do so when they’re out of town…


  2. There is something special about sharing the joys of home renovations. Once you start, it just keeps on going and going and ….You gave me a smile for the end of my day!!! Thank you…


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