Round Two

Three days, another permit, several more holes, an inspection and 20% additional expense later, my project can begin again.

Except that 4 of my cabinets have not arrived. Were expected to have arrived. Were listed on the delivery sheet. But evidently were backordered.

Would have been nice to know before I allowed Wally to rip out my sink and stove and dutifully moved one room full of crap into the next room in boxes.

So progress is slow.  Even slower now that my walls look like Swiss cheese and don't look like they could bear to have a calendar hung on them let alone new cabinets and all of their contents.

So Wally has set about drywalling all of my 92 year old walls and compounding them and sanding them so that they don't fall apart, and tile will lie flat against them.

In the meantime, I want to scream. 

My kids have returned from Lars' house and my babysitter is supposed to start on Monday. In fact, she is supposed to come over on Saturday and take care of some basic business items. (Bank card, pool tickets, contact information etc.)

Again I panic. And this time, I punt.

I cancel the babysitter and decide to complete a folder for her with all manner of minutia.  I will leave an envelope of cash and the tickets and lots of telephone numbers and tell the kids all the rules so there is no nonsense like when you first get a substitute teacher .

I take Scott up on his offer to just spend the weekend in relative peace at his house. We pack the car and a few bags. We are on the road to Scotts at 7 am on Saturday practically leaving skid marks as we peel away from the curb.  At least at Scott's I can cook and boil water and enjoy refrigeration that is bigger than a backpack. As I leave for the luxury of an overnight away from the destruction, I drop Wally an email telling him that the house is his for the weekend. He can work day and night without disturbing anyone but the cat. Hint, hint.

When I return on Sunday, because it is Fathers Day and Lars will have the kids for a few hours, I can see that minimal improvements have been made. It still looks like Warsaw.

OK,  to be honest, Wally is a father, too. He may have had legitimate plans to be enjoying the company of his children instead of the company of my appliance cartons. He may not have had much time to spend at my house.

I have to act quickly. The kids will have to eat dispite there being no place to cook or anything to cook with. I see a much loathed trip to the grocery store in my future.

I plan on Chinese for dinner. Done.

I get in the car, list in my sweaty fist. I am truly in a panic. I need to make decisions.

I meander around the store. It is completely unfamiliar to me now that I shop on line. I am lost.  Like a sheep with no competent, decisive Bo Peep.

But I start to fill my cart.

Apples and oranges. Pretzel rods. Mini yogurts that will fit in the door of my little fridge in the attic.  A half gallon of milk. A half gallon of lemonade. A case of bottled water that can be placed little by little in a fridge that a midget could not be concealed in. Tuna and salads for me at work and treats for the cat. Paper plates. Plastic cutlery. Red Solo Cups to be filled up. Ohh. And a quick stop next door at the Wine and Spirits Shoppe for a mondo bottle of wine.

I return home to stash my third floor "pantry."  I move boxes of cereal and napkins and breakfast bars and packages of cookies so they can be found without scrounging. I wedge every last thing I can into the teeny tiny fridge. I clean the kitty litter and freshen the pitcher of water I've been using to keep her from dying in the heat of the attic. I realize I am distraught.

I am leaving my kids alone the next day with a relative stranger, with a house full of grubby men, and no creature comforts. I am secretly hoping that no one picks tomorrow to start working on their "What I Did On My Summer Vacation" assignment.