Oh man, remodeling a house is something else. Wes and I shopped for carpets today and my eyes ache from straining to differentiate between 4 billions shades of beige. BEIGE! I never thought I’d be a beige kind of person (I don’t even particularly like the way the word is spelled) but there’s home-ownership yet again making an entirely different person out of me.

Wes thinks we can get the house finished and on the market before our trip to Israel but I’m not holding my breath. The more moving pieces there are in an endeavor the more opportunities for calamity to strike and I, for one, am a freaking lightning rod for calamity.

For instance, see my very first car. It was a deep red 1991 Mercury Topaz. It was old, battered, but pretty reliable except for one dead battery. It was also, however, a magnet for destruction. It was backed into twice in the same parking lot, the windows all took turns refusing to work, and right before I sold it three of the four doors would no longer unlock. I took immaculate care of that car (I even waxed it!) but to no avail.

For another example, take the Infamous Exploding Casserole Incident. About two years ago I made a very yummy casserole for dinner and placed it lovingly into the oven to cook. When I turned around to do the dishes, however, I noticed sparks flying in the oven and when I peeked in through the window my casserole was all over the place. The 1/4 inch-thick solid glass Pyrex dish had shattered and sent my yummy casserole flying throughout the oven like so much space-detritus. I did what any sensible person would do: I sat on the floor, started crying, called my mother, then called my mother-in-law, and then called my husband and asked him to pick up some pizza.

For my last example, please see the first time I ever questioned whether I was meant to be a mother someday. I was watching my one-year old niece and had turned around to wash some dishes, literally taking my eyes off her for one minute. Before I knew it she came toddling back into the kitchen holding a permanent marker and sporting some stunning black streaks all up and down her left and right arms. She held them up to me proudly and announced “I draw myself!” (Yep, she spoke like that when she was a year old. Genius, yes?). I had a really fun time explaining that one to her mother…

As you can see, I’m not a negligent person so much as I’m a person whom calamity happens to enjoy picking on occasionally. I have no reason to think that remodeling this house is going to be any different in this regard so I’m prepared for the worst.

If they discover a hidden cache of gnome clothing behind the vanity we’re planning to rip out of the bathroom I am sooooo ready. I’ve suspected my house of a gnome-festation for years.

2 thoughts on “Gnomenclature

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