… kitchen remodel… killing me… can’t … breathe… must… tell… others…

That my hands can still type is a testament to the healing powers of my anti-inflammatory of choice. I’ve snagged my hands on every surface in the kitchen; on scrapers, fiberglass insulation, nasty bendy clips that need a screwdriver to push into place, plaster, 12 and 14 gauge electrical wire, three-quarter inch flexible conduit and unsanded attic joists. It looks like I’ve spent my life working construction. And it feels like it as well.

After weeks of demolition, chemicals and climbing into the attic via an access hole that requires the strength of a gymnast, my body is telling me something: “Drink bourbon pronto and watch reality television programs while semi-prone.”

I know that delivering a child is the penultimate human pain. So put down the pitchforks and torches, women readers. I feel like I’ve been in labor for about 3 weeks. I’m so numb and delirious that walking and talking require huge efforts. You know when you see the video from a natural disaster and victims are staggering around? That’s me.

However, one day soon, I’ll be able to put my dirty cocktail glass into a functioning dishwasher, push a button and it will emerge an hour later, fully disinfected and ready for re-use. Until then, I’m going to cower in a corner, try not to breathe the stale attic air for a day or two and actually enjoy an evening of doing nothing but being with the hardest ass kicker wife that ever was.

I will write about the attic, and my travails therein shortly. Until then, I will be heavily sedated, and possibly waiting in the lobby for the limo.

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