Oct 16, 2008

A little misplaced frustration.

Brady is enormously pissed off that she has not yet made an appearance on this website, but that seems to be her sole complaint. There is the confusion of having another person and another dog in the house, having THREE beds to choose from at night (and all day) and not quite having figured out who is most likely to give her food. Like most kids, she's fairly adaptable, however, and her bottom line seems to be the more, the merrier. Plus, Andrea takes her on grand adventures and lets her outside way more often than I do.

John will be moving out next week, which promotes Boo to man of the house. I believe he's up to the challenge. For one thing, he is an outstanding communicator. Andrea has entire conversations with him that seem to make sense. And he lets me kiss him on the lips without pulling away whenever I need some lovin'. He's still alarmed by Grace's speed and volume, a prey-ish sort of behavior I swear she does intentionally to test him. So far she hasn't tortured him in any of the ways she bothers Brady; it's as if she sized him up and knew instinctively what buttons to push.

My life has been reduced to a series of piles that need addressing: piles of laundry, piles of mail, piles of receipts, piles of bills, piles of garbage. Wash clothes, fold clothes, open mail, record receipts, pay bills, sort recycling — REPEAT. I loathe all of it except the laundry; since before Grace was born, folding her clothes has always made me giggle.

I realized there is no reason to pay anyone to fix our new house. Yesterday I called the developer and told him I needed some things repaired, mentioning the new construction warrantee. Unaware of what a bitch I am and what a gnat he is in the grand scheme of my life, he tried to tell me (I swear I'm not making this up) that the warrantee was something offered by the realtor. He didn't specify which realtor, his or ours, but it became moot when I told him, no, state ordinance requires that new construction carry a one-year warrantee, and when could I expect him to stop by? He came by that afternoon, and at first I was surprised by his SNAG (sensitive new-age guy) appearance and demeanor — ponytail, sideburns, grunge clothes, totally chill attitude. (He was probably thrown by my black turtleneck and black knee-high boots over skinny Levi's.) I confused the shit out of him by going on about how much we love the house, praising the cabinetry, light fixtures, countertops, etc., then asking if he'd had an actual plumber do the plumbing, since I had to fix leaks in almost all of the sink drains when we moved in. I'd say, "Man, I love that bamboo ceiling fan." Then I'd show him how the master bedroom door hinges had pulled out of the door frame and remark, "I fixed it once, but I'm tired of fixing shit in a new house." He kept scribbling on his pad, and when I showed him how the skimcoat had separated from the foundation by the front porch, he said, "The house isn't gonna fall over or anything." He was probably trying to be funny, but not once had he expressed surprise or remorse, which totally tweaked me. I just stared at him and asked when I would be able to use my kitchen sink again. So the plumber was here promptly at nine this morning, and I've been promised the rest of the repairs will be taken care of ASAP. We'll see. I almost feel sorry for him having to deal with me right now. Almost.

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