Walking a Mile....

Okay. So we're in the midst of a HUGE addition project on our home. HUGE. Like, DOUBLING the original floor space. There's dust and dirt and big ole man-footprints everywhere (and when I say "everywhere," I'm not engaging in hyperbole, either. There's a big ole man-footprint on the kitchen counter, I swear to God). Food is stored in boxes in random places throughout the house because, well, I don't have a kitchen (see below, and keep in mind that this is NEAT because, well, the dry wall people haven't been in to add their particular talent to this party...)



I'm beginning to understand, even if only just a TEENY, TINY bit, how some people end up living in squalor. I mean, seriously, people; what POSSIBLE good is vacuuming going to do me at this point in my life? WHO CARES if I tidy the shoes in the back hall?! Neat shoes all in a row are not going to make up for the fact that almost NONE of our stuff is where it's SUPPOSED to be ("have you seen the bread?! Does anyone know where the BREAD IS?!?"). At this point? FlyLady can KISS MY WHITE YANKEE ASS because there is NO comfort to be found in a shiny sink from where I'm looking at life. There's not enough plastic in the WORLD to cover the stuff laying around the house to sufficiently protect it from having to be thoroughly dusted and/or sanitized when the dry wall guys are through with me. And WHAT'S the deal with construction-type workers and stairs?!? EVERY...SINGLE...ONE of my stair treads has black scuff marks on it where the insulation guy kicked on his way up and down this afternoon. And that's not counting the neat, size eleven footprints made of PERFECT bits of mud that caked in, and then fell out of, the treads of someone's boots.

Now I ask you, in the face of all this, what's a Type-A kinda gal to do? I'll TELL you what THIS Type-A gal does. She takes her laptop and hides in the only room in the house that still has walls and isn't being used as a storage facility, and posts a whiney little entry about freaking out over the condition of her house. Thank Sweet Jesus for wireless internet!

I started this whole process looking at it in much the same way I approached labor (both times). I knew it was coming and there was nothing I could do about it. I knew it was going to hurt - a lot - and for a whole hell of a lot longer than I wanted it to. I also knew, though, that when it was all over, I'd be glad I'd done it.

I still believe that, but right about now, I could REALLY use an epidural...