Miss Carol and me were walking the beach this morning trying to keep Cutter and Tug in sight so’s maybe they wouldn’t run off and get lost and I was trying to keep our constructionless little house that’s currently not getting built in some kinda perspective.
Yesterday I drove down to the island to see if Mr. Dickhead Contractor had done any work at all in the THREE weeks since last we spoke ’cause I can’t get him to return my calls.
And he hadn’t.
I’m not quite sure what it is that Mr. Dickhead is doing. And I like Mr. Dickhead. The recent economic unpleasantness- which I think is gonna be MUCH more unpleasant and lifestyle-changing than any of us know- has cost Mr. Dickhead his business, his home, and at least one of his cars.
You’d think he’d be hungry. My buddy Mr. Dickhead’s a good ‘ole Carolina boy who’s done work for us in the past and since he’s had such a hard time of it I gave him the site work, pilings, and septic without even soliciting any other bids. Twelve grand is far from life-changing but it’s still 12,000 one dollar bills. Hell, I thought I was helping the guy out.
I don’t know.
Did I mention I like Mr. Dickhead? But three weeks of unanswered voicemail messages were enough for me. So when I drove down yesterday, I stuck a huge note on the windshield of his bulldozer thingy telling him not to do anything more until we talk.
Because.
I’ve decided to kick him to the curb. I’ve lined up someone else to drive the pilings and gotten a quote from another company on the septic. Both are cheaper than my buddy Mr. Dickhead and both are ready to get the work done immediately.
So I should be happy, right?
So why do I feel like a turd?
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