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What is it, day Sixty-three? I’m throwing in the towel. This cup? This was left, ON MY PIANO (which is in my dining room, and not in the scope of construction), weeks ago by someone in the construction crew. I keep waiting for someone (other than ME) to notice it and do something about it. And the dust build-up is because, despite being told it would happen, nothing was tarped off before they gutted my kitchen.  It’s clearly time for some Pickle Jars.

Oh Hai!

Remember me? I blog here? Or not. I’m throwing in the towel counting my summer days. It’s pointless and depressing. I’ve fallen into a pattern to survive hotel life, but it’s not creative. It’s more of a “lather, rinse, repeat” endeavor.

Progress on the house is achingly slow. Song and dance, people. That’s what we’ve been getting for weeks. IZ is meeting with our contractor in about an hour and all I can say is that it’s probably a very good thing it’s not ME meeting with him. I was outlining dead bodies on my kitchen floor weeks ago, you can imagine that I’m well past being diplomatic.

It’s beyond me. I know I run my own “business” differently. Customer service (and managing expectations) is a high priority for me, and I’ll confess I get a bit “Judgey” when I bump into poor customer service models. However, I don’t think I’m being completely a diva here—it’s been 7 weeks since the first insurance inspector walked through my door with the contractor and STILL there is no operating budget. And meanwhile, nearly every person (save the two guys who demolished my bathroom, they were AWESOME!) who has worked in my home in the past 2 months have treated it like a trash heap. You think I’m kidding? Um… how about this:


This is my stove, in my dining room (my dining room was unceremoniously dumped in my living room. . . ). The electrical cord is MINE, because the electrical has been cut and well, they needed some electrical. Why they didn’t bring their own cords is beyond me. Good thing I had one, eh? And the dustpan? I Have no idea who it belongs to. What I do know, is that it doesn’t belong stored in the handle of the roasting drawer on my stove!

I’ll spare you the photos of nails all over the floor in front of the only working bathroom in the house. Or the fact that they used my child’s room as a temporary (weeks!) holding place for the demolition debris. Really?

Yet, I’m get the distinct impression that these people destroying my home think I should be elated to be in a hotel room. And I don’t know how to express that living in a hotel room during what is usually my biggest month (both in terms of sales and production) with Mireio has nearly KILLED my business. That eating out every night has halted my weigh-loss progress (a journey I started 8 months ago, and I was approaching the 20lb mark!). I’ll be lucky to just maintain during this debacle. Or to express that my poor dog’s bowels have not been normal since she moved into a hotel. Or that poor IZ is working more hours, because he’s having to manage work (or non-work as the case may be) on the house in addition to his more than full-time job. That taking a dozen trips back and forth not only expends time and energy and money in gas—it’s emotionally debilitating and creatively draining to walk into what was once your home and now distinctly feels like a war-zone.  I could go on…

Telling me that I’ll be happy when it’s all done doesn’t make me believe you. It makes me want to smack you. Or throw a spoon version of you in a pickle jar and shake it REAL HARD!

It’s a really good thing I’m not the one taking this meeting.

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