I’m Not Dead… Yet

But I’m pretty darn close.

HoBiscuit and I have finally finished running around like headless chickens and have kinda-sorta moved in to our new apartment. I can’t really say that we’ve moved in yet because we’re still living out of cardboard boxes that are covered in plastic sheets which in turn are covered in dust from the contractor’s minions who are, as I write this, remodeling our kitchen. The same kitchen they said would be finished last Friday that they now say won’t be done until sometime in October.

Maybe November.

I hate living like this. I hate waking up every morning looking like a mummy emerging from a sarcophagus in the middle of the Sahara. I can’t stand having to put on fuzzy slippers every time I want to use the bathroom or get a drink of water. It irks me that I have to take a shower both when I wake up and before I go to bed because I’m covered in construction dust from the moment I walk in to my apartment. I really can’t stand having to wrap my toiletry items in Saran Wrap every morning to protect them from being buried under a foot of dust during the day, but even worse is having to unwrap them every night so I can actually use them.

Have I mentioned that I hate dust?

Well, aside from the whole remodeling fiasco, there have been a few other things going on. Obviously, I now have some form of internet access, however since my computer is currently located in the back corner of the second bedroom under a plastic tarp (and guarded by a feral dust bunny the size of Godzilla) I feel I should warn my faithful readership that I may not be updating this site as often as you, or I for that matter, would like. In fact, if I manage to write more than twice a week for the next two weeks I think I should be rewarded. With an expensive dinner and a medal. And maybe a Broadway show.

But not Chicago. I hate Chicago.

My brother finally tied the knot and married a woman far too good for him. I’ll tell you all about what happened at the wedding another time, but for now let me tease you by giving you a bit of advice. If you happen to speak a language other than English and are serving food and drink at a wedding of primarily English speaking guests, do not insult the guests in your native tongue unless you are absolutely positive no one there will understand what you are saying.

Otherwise, there may be trouble.

That’s all the time I’ve got to write right now. It seems that I’ve got to go back out to the kitchen to “discuss” the countertop situation with the contractor again. It’s funny, but apparently contractors might hear you tell them what you want for a countertop, they might see it written in the contract, they might have received the product samples you sent to them, and they might even have seen the countertop material specifically pointed out on a special page of the architect’s plans but, unless you’ve actually gone out in person with them to buy the damn thing they don’t actually believe it’s what you really want.

Sigh. Anybody know the early warning signs for an aneurism?