Things have been going just swimmingly with our construction. And typically, it was just when I was feeling oh-so-superior to all the poor dumb people who didn't have the brains to pick a good contractor (how else to explain the construction horror stories they tell me?) and stay on top of their project that the universe decided to unleash The Forces of Evil to teach me a lesson. (Similarly, when Bear was an infant, I pitied my friends who complained about their colicky baby, their baby who wouldn't nap, or how they couldn't eat out at restaurants anymore because of their fussy baby. Obviously, they were doing it wrong. I had just crowned myself The Best Mother Ever when the universe gave me Bug, The Most Ornery Baby Ever, and I realized that it had nothing to do with me).
But back to the construction: every deadline had been met, every minor problem gracefully handled, and huge progress was made each day. I got giddy and baked cupcakes for the workers, brought them milkshakes on hot days, and bragged annoyingly to friends about how smoothly
our project was progressing. (Kind of like strapping a lightning rod to one's head, no?) Then the electrician didn't show up one day. The plumber scared off the spray insulation guys because he didn't want it "fumey" while he was running pipe. Which delayed the drywallers, who furthermore decided that they wouldn't even bother starting until next week, pushing the
ready-for-paint date back by more than a week.
Did I mention that I decided to paint the whole shebang myself in order to save money? And that that sounded like a good idea at the time? My mother, probably alarmed that I would fume myself to death, had offered to come help me. Now she was scheduled to fly in a full week before the painting could start.
The workmen accidentally let out our clawless, indoor cat.
Bug broke a tooth at school, requiring an emergency extraction.
I drove Bear to her very first oboe lesson, only discover that she'd forgotten to bring her reed. I basically paid the oboe teacher $15 to look at my kid and ask her what she would have played if she'd had a reed.
The world was crumbling quickly around me, and I began to quietly freak out. Solutions like panic-eating a bag of Oreos or getting in bed and pulling the covers over my head presented themselves as sensible courses of action.
I pulled into the driveway from The Oboe Lesson That Wasn't, saw an unfamiliar truck parked next to the garage, and inwardly groaned. What now?
It was the drywaller. Mr. Awesome Contractor had called him and *ahem* persuaded him to get the job done by the originally-promised date. He suggested that working nights and weekends would be expected, if necessary. The drywaller apologized most courteously for the misunderstanding.
I perked up and found the wherewithal to leave the Oreos on the shelf.
Windows! Siding! Doors!