We are sooooo close.
The bathrooms just need a little bit of trim, and maybe a little less blurriness.
The kitchen just needs a backsplash and window trim. And maybe some food cooking.
Trim, trim, baby.
And the living area just needs a little bit more flooring, a little bit of trim, a little less blurriness, and a final inspection so I can take down those uber ugly, temporary stair railings and open it all up again.
But, ooh, baby, baby, we are sooooooo damn close.
So how do I start?
In amongst everything else, I’ve been reading a pile of books and since I’m pretty sure both my readers are hanging on my pithiness- here it comes.
A Hologram For A King. Dave Eggers book is an elegantly, beautifully written piece of go-nowhere-ness. It didn’t do anything for me, but if you like really pretty, really dull writing, rush out and get it. Or actually, get two- in case you fall asleep and forget where you left one.
The Beast God Forgot To Invent. Jim Harrison is an amazing writer. I’m not usually a fan of a collection of short stories, but his are good.
The Wolf Gift. Long, long, ago, Anne Rice wrote some of the most beautiful books ever. Yeah, sure, they were about vampires, but they were beautiful. Then she got religion or something and wrote some yawners about something else and when nobody bought them she turned back to her tried and true. Only this time it’s werewolves. Think hairy vampires.
The Englishman’s Boy. This was actually pretty good but I read it so long ago that I kinda forget.
Reamde. I have never read Neal Stephenson before, but you can betcha sweet ass I’m gonna read more of his stuff. Reamde is a 1000 page romp of fun reading. Get it.
Next up, we’ll check into the Little House of Horrors.
The fun never ends.
In my defense, I had already valiantly marshalled through five whole days of a devastatingly brutal head cold.
I had stoically stood up to my constantly running nose, my unbearably itchy eyes, and my life-changing, 24-hour-a-day, stuffiness and pressure gradient headache. I felt that I had bravely accepted my fate as manfully as I could.
I had toughed it out, enduring the barely endurable, but could endure no more.
Every man has his limits, his breaking point, and by Friday I’d reached the very zenith of my suffering. I had climbed my mountain of misery and stood on the pinnacle of my pain.
I had to do something.
I could stand it no more.
So I waited until Miss Carol went up to bed. And then I waited until I heard her snoring quietly. And then I waited a little bit longer, just to be sure.
And then I crept up the stairs to our bedroom, stripped down and slid sniffling and mucousy into our bed next to her. I laid awake a long time thinking about what I was thinking about doing.
And then I leaned over and gave the gently sleeping Miss Carol a long, slobbery, cold-virus-transferring, soul kiss.
I sure hope there are air-conditioned seats in hell.