All along, I knew this would happen. I knew at some point we’d hit the wall.
I knew that the lusty fun of building a dream would slowly succumb to the reality of getting to pay for it and having to see it through to the end.
Shits like that.
Dreams at inception are magical elfin little things dancing around on the periphery, seductively luring you into stuff that the long haul slowly grinds into something you end up hating.
I knew this was gonna happen.
The truly fun way to build would be having enough money to pay everybody from architects to contractors to finishers and designers to build your little dream and paint and stock it with freshy goodness and let you walk into your squeaky new little house beaming broadly with the huge happiness that comes from not having had to work on any of it.
But that ain’t a happenin’ thing at Casa Oceandoggy.
Phabulious Phil and his crew are just about done and the house will be dried in-meaning the siding, the roof, and the windows and doors will be on or in. Rough shelter. You could live in it if you didn’t need running water or heat or toilets. Think plywood tent. Think trailer on fuck me pumps.
And then it’s just me to finish this baby.
Having spent 50K by dry in we’re approaching budget limits that let Miss Carol scream at me almost constantly, which is always nice.
I look up at it and think about the countless hours of my life I’m gonna spend getting it done and I wonder what the fuck I was thinking? I don’t have enough to do keeping my business afloat, writing a crappy blog, and trying to write a book?
And now I’m gonna spend every weekend for the rest of my life working on Casa Oceandoggy?