Our house needs a little love. When you squish a big family into a small house for 13 years, things get shabby. I'd like to paint pretty much everything, and rip out the battered carpet, and OOOOHHHH the basement is kind of horrifying. But first things first: our downstairs bathroom and the kitchen need some attention. Back in the late winter or early spring, the guy who has done handyman work for us in the past came over to hear about what we wanted to do. And then...nothing. No estimate in the mail, no email follow-up. Just silence.
In April we learned that at least one important piece of mail had gone astray on its way to us, which made me wonder if Handyman Bob's estimate had met a similar fate. Ever since then I've been thinking to myself "must text Handyman Bob to ask him to re-send estimate via email."
Two months is a long time to think that thought.
One piece of my procrastination is the worry that maybe he doesn't want to do the job. "Not you again, Jamie Gladly," I imagine him thinking. "You're too high-maintenance for me!" Even I recognize that this thought is more likely to be the tortured effluvium of Anxious Brain than it is to be a reflection of reality. The bigger issue is that getting an estimate means making decisions. Finding an energy-efficient fridge that fits in our little galley kitchen. Picking the replacement flooring. Discovering exactly how many cabinet pull options exist in the world. Ignorance on that last topic might actually be bliss, I'm thinking.
Oh, and also, can I get even less rational for just a moment here? I keep reading about people who remodeled their kitchens and then regretted the expenditure when they needed the money for, like, cancer treatment or an acrimonious divorce.
Huh, now that I have typed it all up the implausibility factor is at about 25 on a 1-10 scale. (It's a log scale, too.) I knew it would seem less overwhelming if I just wrote it all down. Last night at dinner one of the kids asked me about the plan for getting the oven working again. (It died last week.) I thought to myself, "I need to text Bob, and Decide All The Things, and then not get cancer." I pulled the brakes on that crazy train and said out loud, "I...need to blog about that."
The kids just looked at me, clearly puzzled. "Or," said the 18yo, "you could use your mouth to have a-- what's the word? it starts with a c-- OH YEAH, a CONVERSATION about it."
But sometimes a person needs to blog about it.
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