It has been an interesting week here in the Land of the Remodel. In the seven weeks since this project began, Banjo Man and I have consoled ourselves at night by eating Klondike bars, those chocolate-covered squares of vanilla ice cream we have never bought until this winter. In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, our nightly ritual of Klondike bars in front of the tv was an excellent stress reducer.
By the way, we’ve been watching season 1 of True Detective and we’re very grateful we don’t live on or near the bayou with all those crazy drugged up people.
Check out the picture I took this morning. Remember I told you I had sold Mom’s car to one of the wonderful electricians? Well, the poor kid couldn’t register it because he needed the title. Recently the Department of Motor Vehicles had changed the rules from not needing a title after 10 years to needing a title until the car was 19 years old!
Who knew? And with my mother’s papers in storage, there was no way to dig out a title. I’d taken a stab at going through her files last fall in hopes of finding the title, but I didn’t spent a lot of time on it knowing it was necessary.
I was on the road at 7:30 this morning and at the DMV–the only place in town with the capacity to issue a duplicate title–at 8:15. There were at least a hundred people ahead of me.
I called Banjo Man and warned him. “I’m going to be here all day.”
But lucky for me, I was out of there within an hour. After lining up with all of my new friends in the wrong place, and then being sent to the right place (the “research” department on the third floor), I discovered there were only two people ahead of me. I was armed with notarized papers and the Power of Attorney and my check book, so it actually went smoothly.
This was not what I expected. The RI DMV is the place of legends. People line up all day and then get a blue “return ticket” to keep their place in line for the next day. A scam was uncovered last year: DMV employees were selling low numbers. For $25 you could save yourself a couple of hours in hell.
Speaking of hell, Banjo Man and I tried to put together a cd storage book case I bought on line. On the right side, part E, the holes were slightly off and the cam locks wouldn’t lock. Some worker in China wasn’t paying attention that day. Banjo Man tried to take out the cam lock and ended up punching a hole in the Side E, which means we can’t return it.
I’ve decided to repackage the whole thing and slide it under the bed until we have more patience. Or somebody really smart and really bored comes over for a visit.
I was sad about this because it was to have held almost 500 cd’s and was the perfect height, width and color for the space in our living room.
In the process of a little retail therapy, I ordered new sandals. They were two inches too long and had to be sent back. Are my feet shrinking? What the hell???!!!
My mother’s new pants are too big and had to be returned. She gave me the latest rejected pair at Easter. I give up. I AM DONE WITH PANTS.
My beautiful new gas range was installed on Friday. The gas company guy, Joel, couldn’t hook up the oven because the door couldn’t be opened all the way (which I’d told the appliance company people weeks ago and they’d said it was a quick fix). But the burners worked, so as soon as Joel left I made pancakes.
The appliance repairman came on Saturday to (a) fix the hinge and (b) install the oven and broiler. After a couple of hours here, he was not a happy camper. In fact, he was downright angry. He (a) couldn’t fix the hinge and (b) couldn’t get the door off. A specialist, a bonafide GE repairman, is coming next week to see what he can do.
In the meantime, the oven works and I made cookies.
I had such a proud moment last week. I patched a serious hole in the ceiling after the electrician centered my new pendant light over the sink. I spackled and sanded three times. And my construction crew guys told me I did a really good job!
They couldn’t hide their surprise. Hah!
I dare you to find where the hole was. Come on over and try!
A low moment last week: we were in Home Depot and Banjo Man told me to pick out stain for the new stair banisters. I totally freaked and started to cry right there in front of all those little cans of stain. “You didn’t tell me, you didn’t warn me, I don’t have my floor sample, I can’t do it,” I wailed.
The decision-making part of my brain has collapsed. Hopefully only temporarily, but still…ask me questions at your own risk.
To add to all of this, Banjo Man has not recovered from the root canal he had three weeks ago. His jaw joint is locked and his cheek muscles are in spasms. He has a hard time eating (an understatement, actually) and we have made two visits to the dentist and oral surgeon. Yesterday’s visit resulted in more medication, exercises and hope for relief some time soon.
Surprisingly, this hasn’t slowed him down too much. He’s installing those freshly-stained stair banisters as I type this.
And I think I’ll put a beef stew in that new oven. Or take a nap. Or both.