Worn Out From Wood
Monday, March 15, 2010

I am a bed maker. 

The world might be falling down around me. Chewed up tampons might be strewn about my house, but by gosh, my bed will be made!  (Note: I'm having some seriously frustrating Blogger issues today including link problems. So tampons refers to the post right below this one, just so you don't think I strew tampons around my house.)

I might not be able to win the war of laundry, but I totally dominate that bed. 

Several months ago, as I was making my bed, I felt something not quite right below my feet. 

The floor. It felt . . . bumpy. I walked back and forth over this one spot and yes, there was a definite bump there. 

I'm very wary about bumps in wooden floors. 

I'll save that story for another day, because it will be quite an entertaining post, Internet, but I will say our  move into this house we built with our blood, sweat and profuse tears, was heralded by 3 hurricanes . . . in a row . . . week after week of hurricanes. And one of those hurricanes very kindly pointed out to us that we had a leak in our brand new house, a leak that caused our beautiful brand new floors to warp. 

An awful story for another day. 

So, I know a little somethin' about warped wooden floors. 

I showed it to my Hubby who insisted I was imagining it just like when he claims I'm IMAGINING 
that  Bono is singing to me when he croons, "All I Want Is You." 

Won't he be surprised when Bono shows up at our house for a little Tea and Me? 

We'll talk imagination then, Honey, as the door hits my ass on the way out to my new rock n roll life.

Here's another pic from Face in the Hole, courtesy of my friend Mary. And for the record, that is my face on Bono's wife's body. I do not have thick legs. My thickness reserves itself for my abs, but definitely not my legs. Also, in real life I do not have half a head, in case you were wondering. 

Anyway, every day I'd make that bed and every day that bump seemed to grow.

And then came the day, the boards started splitting apart.

A great, "I told you so" moment, except it involved warped wooden floors which meant one thing—a leak. 

We found the leak. It involved bwaa-bwaa-bwaa-bwaa-bwaa air conditioning and bwaa-bwaa-bwaa overflow pans not installed correctly. And that's all I know. My ears just automatically shut down when it comes to that sort of talk. When repairmen come to my house and give me a detailed, boorrring explanation of the problem and how they fixed it, I nod intelligently and insert appropriate comments like, "Oh, okayyy" and "Ah-hah!" 

Then my Hubby comes home and asks me what they said, and I'm all, "Um, they fixed it?" 

And he's like, "Yeah, but what did they say about the problem?" 

And I just shrug my shoulders and say, "There was a problem. They showed up in their little truck. They complimented me on my dogs." (I don't understand that. Everyone compliments me on the dogs like I actually, you know, birthed them.) "They tinkered for awhile and they fixed the problem. That's it." 

It's not that I'm an ignoramus in any way, not by a long shot. My family thinks I should be a contestant on Jeopardy because I'm a walking Wikipedia, but I'd lose in the first round because of the sports category. I don't know jack about sports. I only know names if they happen to be a super famous sports celebrity and even then, I'm not even sure I could match them up with the right sport.

Alex Trebek would say, "This professional hockey player considered to be the greatest hockey player of all times is nicknamed 'The Great One.'"

And I would slam my button and say, "Who would be Michael Jordan, Alex." 

So sports and home repair are not my forte. 

Because of the whatever jacked up air conditioner, our entire bedroom and closet floors had to be replaced. 

Which meant everything had to come out of those rooms. 


My house took on the look of a Sanford and Son episode. 

I had furniture stacked up in my foyer and down the hallway. 

My husband's shooting and gourmet and Wine Spectator magazines (stacks of them) were scattered throughout his den. His clothes were in heaps all over that room. 

My dining room became my temporary closet. 

And to answer your question, so you don't have to strain your fingers typing, that contraption surrounded by my clothes and bedroom dresser is not a medieval torture device. It's an antique wine press because when it comes to the wine, we're freaks like that.

And then there was my bed. Oh, my bed.

Our Florida room became our temporary bedroom. 

As I've said before we built this room in the center of the house. It's a small room with glass windows all around the perimeter. There is a sliding glass door that runs the entire length of the back wall, looking out into my backyard. We slide that door back and the entire room feels as if you're outdoors in the sunny tropics, thus the moniker,  Florida room. 

A Florida room is great for entertaining and reading the newspaper with your coffee in hand as the sun casts its early morning light upon the lake's surface, creating a sparkling, luminescent herald of the breaking day.

A Florida room is not so great as a bedroom. 

And yes, I know my bed is unmade in this pic. It is because my Hubby was reading the paper in nothing but his skivvies and I told him unless he wanted to become a member of the elite group of those who have semi-nude photos of themselves scattered about the Internet, he might want to jump out of the shot. And yes, those are my shoes on the mantle. Because, they are new and because I would beat my 2 crapheads with them if they added them to their list of puppy casualties in this house.

Not only was my entire home uprooted for a month, I had to sleep in the dead center of my freakin' house with glass windows all the freakin' way around it.

Fine if you're sleeping, but other than that, not so much. 

There was this one day, I wasn't feeling too fancy. The winter viruses had caught up with me and so naturally, I did what every other sick person does—I got in my jammies and took to the bed for a little R&R.

Unfortunately, it was the middle of the afternoon. Unfortunately, my house is a busy place filled with packs of roaming dogs and kids. 

We have this one neighbor boy who is Eddie Haskell, reincarnated. He is loquacious with the adults, able to hold his own in a grown up conversation, but man, he's just a little asshole when it comes to kids his own age. 

He accused my girls one time of stealing his dog. Going around for weeks, muttering, "SOMEbody stole my dog. And SOMEbody's gonna get put in jail when we find them out and we KNOW who that SOMEbody is." 

Like I need another freakin' dog. 

It's okay, though, because we got him back the time my girls accused him of stealing their jumbo pack of water balloons that they, surprisingly, left thrown in the yard. They were all, "SOMEBODY stole our water balloons and the police are coming right now to arrest SOMEBODY." Which made little Eddie run home crying his little turd eyes out. It turned out that my dog ate the water balloons which we will not discuss here since I have grossed you out enough in the past about things my moronic dogs eat. 

But even with all this discord, little Eddie still comes around. 

So, I was suffering in my bed in the middle of my house in the middle of the day when suddenly I felt like someone was watching me. I lifted my stuffed up head off the pillow and was met by Little Turd Eddie, his face pressed against the glass, his hands cupping his eyes, to get a better view. I groaned and fell back on the pillow, now absolutely certain that my life never has a moment of normalcy. 

The next thing I knew I heard footsteps scurrying away and I heard little Eddie yell, (like I couldn't hear him 10 feet away from the door), "Hey, come see! Julia's mom is in bed in the middle of the house and she's got her NIGHTGOWN on!"

Now my nightgown is not the stuff of adolescent boys' fantasies. My nightgowns tend to be thick brushed cotton, down to my knees and oftentimes with characters splayed across them. My favorite one has the Lucky Charms leprechaun covering the entire front. So, definitely not sexy even to boys who have just discovered the bra section in Sears catalog as their primary source of lust. 

Next thing I knew I heard the tromping of more than a few footsteps. I had no idea who was coming to check on me in my bed in my NIGHTGOWN. It could have been Little Turd's dad for all I knew. All I did know is it sounded like an entire army coming my way and I was pretty sure it was an army of stupid little boys looking for a change of scenery from the Sears catalog. 

I was trapped because even though I had on a very prim nightgown, my unleashed taa-taa's are incredibly wild when not held down by the constraints of a bra. They tend to jump around and hang low—very, very low. 

And I did not want Little Turd Eddie spreading the word around the neighborhood about my National Geographic taa-taa's. 

Because he would. That little shit. 

So, I yelled for my girls who proceeded to shoo little Eddie and his gang of miniature peeping pervs away. 

And if that wasn't bad enough. 

Then came the sealing of those wood floors. 

There tends to be a lot of fumes with sealants and usually people leave their house for those days. But, I have 3 dogs, 2 who are maniacs. And the only hotel I could find in this town that would take all of us, rented their rooms by the hour. 

I decided we would live upstairs. 

I am convinced those wood guys sole purpose was to make my life as excruciating as they could for the month they were in my house. They informed me they would have to keep all the doors open, leading into those rooms to air the floors out properly. 

Now, here's a little something I forgot to add, Internet. After they pulled up all the warped boards, my dogs had decided that the concrete floor was their new crapping spot. Because, you see, they enjoy crapping on everything BUT grass. 

So, they had gotten used to my bedroom floor being their toilet 

The wood guys then informed me that any disturbance to the floor, footprints, anything, would ruin the seal and the whole process would have to be redone. 

I think dog crap counts as a disturbance. I know I definitely count it as a major disturbance in my life.

I blockaded us upstairs by stacking chairs and whatever else I could get my hands on. And while I was busy blockading it, I found out that the dogs discovered something new— wall to wall carpeting is also great for crapping. 

It took me about an hour to realize that I had to blockade the dogs, too and keep them limited to the hallway. Their pent up energy level from spending their waking moments in a hallway for an entire week was enough to bring the Dog Whisperer to his knees. 

And still I did my best to keep up my game face. 

Then my beloved sister, surprised us with a visit. I cried a little when she showed up for the weekend to my Hoarder-in-Training house. 

But, still I was feeling the positive thoughts, knowing that my wood floor trials were almost over. 

It wasn't until the day I was running late for something. I hate being late. Nothing will get me more worked up than being late. Ask my family on Sunday, as I scream and rant and rave all the way to the Lord's house for some peaceful worship, late AGAIN, because of my stupid family who obviously never learned the basic elements of telling time. 

So I was late and I was trying to find this brown sweater that went with the outfit I had on and I couldn't find it as I dug my way through the heaps of clothing like I was at some manic garage sale. I dug and threw clothes about and couldn't find that sweater anywhere, not anywhere.

And that is the moment I broke. 

I wept and screamed as I tossed piles of clothes, shrieking, "I HAVE HAD IT WITH THESE BULLSHIT FLOORS! This is such @#*#*@ bullshit. NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS! I CAN'T FIND MY @#* SWEATER YOU MOTHERF#@@*@R  *#@* WOOD ASSBAG FLOOR GUYS!"

As I railed and wept, throwing clothes around my dining room, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the wood guys peek out of the closet. And just as quickly, their heads ducked back in. 

Smart guys. 

They were finished the next day. 

You don't mess with a girl and her clothes. 

As soon as the stupid floors dried, my Hubby sent me to lunch with my sister and moved all the furniture back in the room. I wouldn't let him touch the closet because his idea and my idea of organizing are completely different. I spent the next day reassembling my closet and just making my entire house all spiffy and organized. 

My Hubby walked around for a week through our Non-Sanford and Son house saying, "This is so nice, just so nice."

For the record, the wood guys were spectacularly nice, but I'd break down and yell at Mother Teresa if the shoe fit . .  or was missing. I'm just sayin'. 

Today's Doo Ittt Download: Rachael Yamagata's, "Worn Me Down." Such a fabulous song from such a fabulous singer and songwriter. 

For my wood guys. No offense, but I've never been so happy to see anyone leave my house in my life and that includes Little Turd Eddie Haskell.

And you've wrong
You've wrong
I'm not overreacting
Something is off
Why don't we ever believe ourselves'
And I, Oh I
I feel that word for you
And I will because you've worn me down
Oh I will because you've worn me down
Worn me down like a road
I did anything you told
Worn me down to my knees
I did anything to please


Dee said...

I think our dogs are related. And that's not a good thing. LOL

I'm glad the floor was finally finished and you have a bit of normalcy back in your life. :D

I was laughing so hard about the Eddie Haskell kid. My son, who is now grown, had a friend like that. Drove me nuts!

Anonymous said...

hee hee, assbags.

That chick does have some thick legs doesn't she?

btw: fixed the loading background on my blog back to red for you ;0)

Mrs. Ohtobe said...

*roar laffin @ NG Ta-tas. TOO funny girlie!

Lisa said...

SO funny!!!

My favorite nightgown (especially when I am feeling poorly) is a red, plaid, flannel one and my favorite PJ's have tinkerbell all over them. Unfortunately, I know all too well exactly what you mean about the ta-ta's having a life of their own...and venturing into territory previously reserved for my once flat abs. Sigh.

I'm so glad you have your house (and your closet!!) back....are the puppies being a bit better behaved now that life is back to normal?

LisaPie said...

One of these days all the assbags in the world will learn when to just shut the hell up, won't they?

I had to school a pencil neck twit of a host at a restaurant one time. He was seriously lacking in his education of when to just STFU and when to try and insist he was right. Poor boy! He had me and the lady behind me to contend with. His future wife owes us a huge amount of gratutude! That's what I am saying.

p.s. I like your furniture, and especially that angel painting in your dining room. Is there a good story behind it?

Anonymous said...

Remember the 2 sets of grandparents laying in their beds in the middle of the room in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory?

Of course, The Original Version.

Sorry, but that is what your bed reminded me of!!!


I am neat too and we have remodeled a LOT over the past year and eventually I cracked too.
A place for everything and everything in its place!!!

Kelly said...

LOVE hardwood floors. HATE the refinishing hassle. When TheManTheMyth refinished our floors, we had access to the kitchen and our bedroom, via the window, only. It was brutal. At least we didn't have a junior Eddie Haskell "That's a great looking nightgown you have on Mrs. D!"

My kids have been urging me to try out for "Jeopardy" for years. But with my luck, I'd pass the test and get on the show only to have categories such as "Physics" "Politics" "Algebraic Equations" and "Biology" as the categories and I would just stand there motionless and silent the entire show and then I would have to become a shut-in because I'd be too mortified to show my face in public because everyone would point and laugh and do the "LOSER" sign when they saw me.

Joann Mannix said...


Why yes there's a story behind it. I love having pieces in my home that have stories. It's actually a photograph we bought from a gallery in St Augustine. The artist who took the shot told us the angel was a sculpture on exhibit in a show at a gallery in St Augustine. They had her outside the gallery and he passed by at night, noticing how the light was radiating off of her. He stopped to take a picture and only was able to snap one shot before he ran out of film. He came back the next day to take more and the angel had been sold. And that picture was his one shot. We had to buy her after that story.

Paula said...

Oh, you crack me up! Also "little turd" and "little shit" are among my favorites for what to call rotten children. It's just so ... perfect.

Jen said...

By the title I thought this was about something completely different. I was going to go "You go girl!" but now that I have read your nightmare, and lived one myself, however, not with a really cool Florida Room (I must have one of those). I can see you just need a hug, and a pooper scooper.

On that note.

When we all moved I was potty training my daughter and the dog. I was tired of changing diapers and picking up dog crap all over my house. Ironically I was doing the floors in the old house to sell it, which sucks because the floors were finally nice just as I couldn't enjoy them.

Anyway, I was tired, frustrated and all that and made a very loud announcement that if the Dog crapped in the new house I was going to get rid of her. The daughter heard this and assumed it applied to her. She never used a diaper again.

I got rid of the dog.

MrsBlogAlot said...

My new sign on my front lawn will read - Curb your dog crap disturbance.

That oughta confuse the crap out of my turd neighbors!

Bossy Betty said...

I'm thinking your bed looks very nice in that room.

Anonymous said...

Oh rofl, you poor dear. I can't imagine putting up with all that crap, and I mean that figuratively and literally.

Lee said...

That is the worst. I had a shower pan leak in the master bath and had to tear the whole dang bathroom out...got a new bathroom, but what a pain in the ass it was while they were doing it!

The Step In Mom. . . said...

I know how you feel... we had to have the Master Bathroom re-done, and a week long job turned into 3 1/2 weeks... and I had plumbers and tile people in my house up until 10 pm sometimes. I almost lost my freaking mind. Especially when their dumb asses thought it would be a good idea to sit their tools on the down blanket on my bed. Its a good thing none of them spoke English, or they would have gotten an earful....

melanie said...

So glad to hear it isn't just me who must have the bed made no matter what the rest of the house looks like. I have to climb piles of laundry (clean and dirty), toys, and miscellaneous junk to get to any bed in this house, but they are all made up nice before I leave the house in the morning!

Tiffaney said...

"And just as quickly, their heads ducked back in." DY.ing!!

Tracie said...

This could be a sitcom episode.

When we re-modeled the master bathroom we went on vacation for 2 weeks and gave the contractor the house key. I didn't want to deal with the stress and mess.

Jennifer Vanderbeek said...

Once again, I can relate:

The first month after we moved into our home (it's a rental, thank goodness!) it rained hard. So hard that the east wall decided to leak something fierce and the carpet in the bedroom closet and my boyfriend's office were drenched. Property Manager sent out the carpet guys, got it taken care of, then sent the landscapers to build up the grass on that side of the house (because, of course, why find and fix the leak when you can just patch it with sod?).

June comes and I'm throwing a party, our housewarming party, on the hottest Saturday in June in the past 10 years at least. Head to the bedroom to get something while we're setting up, 2 hours before showtime. Squish. Yell. The landscapers had covered up the overflow thingy from the heat pump (which was working overtime, of course) and it had flooded the concrete under the closet and leaked out into the hallway and, again, into the bedroom/office closets. Boyfriend and brother go tearing out to the side of the house and dig out the thingy with bare hands (hello, garter snake!).

I think we made a mistake when we named the house Monkey Creek, lol.

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