Contractor Update

We're getting so damn close.  Yet it's taken so damn long.  My advice for quicker renovations results is to hire disabled monkeys.  With their able-bodied friends making rudimentary hand signals and humping at the zoo, they'll have much to prove. 

Today a man who claimed to be an Ikea expert came over to help assemble our kitchen.  Now I knew something was amiss, when standing over the hundreds of pieces that hopefully will one day become our culinary centerpiece, I told him he'd make a killing once Ikea caught on in Colorado.   And he glanced at me, frowned, then looked away.  Did I think I was saying one thing but instead said something else...maybe about his mother?  Was I gassy?  And then this guy, with his wiry, curly main in tow, turned to the general contractor and said, "I don't know these kitchens."  There was some conversation that ensued including the steady-but-wary-because-I-want-to-hit-you-with-a-claw-hammer, "But you said you did?"  And then he tromped out of our garage and our lives.  "Well you and your magician's mullet can piss off!"  Is at least one thing I now wish I would have said. 

So now our general contractor has comforted us by saying he can do it.  I'll give him credit.  He's the one who encouraged our Ikea aspirations by showing us his own massive shrine to Norwegian cabinetry.  His kitchen is impressive and he says he built it.

Or, who knows, maybe Ikea is the hot chick of construction projects.  She inspires all the men to exaggerate their accomplishments with her.  For now I just want her out of my garage and looking good in the kitchen. 

Baby Update: Quin Can Nearly Touch the Top of His Head

One reason babies could be so cute, or at least unique, is that their proportions are all out of whack.  Raise your arm above your head and you've got at least a foot of clearance.  It's taken Quin nearly 10 weeks of growth just to get past his ears.

 

Would we still be as adorable if these infant proportions never changed?

My Funny Wife*

(While watching the striking writer's guild chanting and marching on the news.)

"That's got to be more work than writing."

*Because lately she hasn't had time to blog.

Open House! Free Apps, Beer and Electronics.

Real Quick: 

Downside to having child:  Can't sit and watch Bronco game.

Upside:  Don't have to sit and watch Bronco game.

There are three things I like to see on an NFL Sunday.  Here they are in order:  1) Bronco victory.  If not that then 2) A San Diego, Oakland or Kansas City loss and, if all else fails, I relish a 3) Sad Peyton Manning.   Yes.  I want him to break down to the point where he takes off his shoes at midfield and cries.  And one day he will.  People say they love Manning.  They say he's great in his commercials.  He seems so funny.   But give anyone five million bucks, a script and a thousand takes and they too can be witty geniuses.  In reality, Peyton Manning is the kind of guy who'd blame his grandmother if it meant he wouldn't have to answer to a poor performance.   Right now I'm watching him walk off the field, his team beaten by the Patriots, he has his helmet on and won't talk to anybody.  He's the kid who brings the football to the street game and threatens to take it if he doesn't get his way. 

Screw you guys, I'm going home. 

So I got two out of three.  The Broncos were murdered in Detroit, but that happens to a a lot of decent people.  (And the Broncos always flail against NFC dome teams...it's just a fact)  The weird thing is that since SD, KC and Oakland lost, the pitiful Broncos are only one game out of first place in the AFC West. 

But now that I have a child, all that means very little to me.  I swear.  What matters is that yesterday Quin said "Daddy".  Now his mother says that he said "aaaaaah," and then some time later added, "dee".  I wish she wouldn't let jealousy get the best of her. 

 

While his first word is still under review, Quin's second may very well be, "Make my day, punk."  As in Colorado we have this law that's actually called the "Make My Day" law (excellent marketing to get the apathetic public all hot and bothered), where if someone comes into your house, you can shoot them.  It could be your autistic neighbor or a lost milkman, but if he crosses that threshold then you and the whole family can open fire.  At our house the only weapon we have of deadly caliber is our baby's sphincter, which has proven it can shoot poop across the room.  If we aim for the eyes then our intruder will stumble around blindly until our contractor shows up and kills him with incompetence. 

The reason we might be using our son's volatile digestion as a weapon is someone took the keys out of our contractor's lockbox and never brought them back.  It all went down Friday.  I was at home waiting for the painters who never showed up when I heard someone open the screen door and start fiddling with the combination.  Like an excited puppy I bounded towards the door. 

But no one was there.  And the keys were gone.  I called the general.  He said he was the only one who knew the combination.  Him and another guy and that guy's workers.  And the plumber guy who we booted because we kept failing the inspection.  He knows it, too. 

As he spoke I imagined the guys who dug the hole for our egress window robbing banks as Sarah and Jared Ewy.   They might be decent people but they took off before the work was done and left beer cans in my backyard.  They drink at my house and don't even offer me a cold one.  bastards.  I should have known they were trouble when they showed up and asked to borrow a shovel.  What guy hired to dig a hole doesn't have a shovel?  Apparently those that our general finds--fresh out of detox.   

When the call with the general contractor was over, I was mad at myself for not being indignant enough.  That's been a big problem with this whole renovation ordeal.  I'm never mad at the right times.   Some of that is that I don't know how to be mad in Spanish, and the other part is that our general contractor is this round-faced Swedish fellow who completely disarms me.  I'll fume and fume about failed inspections or getting shot by a nail gun (no, really), but when our contractor shows up, his big, blonde head and playful Strange Brew accent just make me want to dance and drink beer.   His cheeks are red and he's got this big smile.  He looks like part of the Hummel collection.  Imagine trying to yell at one of Santa's helpers.  It's impossible. 

But tomorrow I hope to overcome my weakness around this anger kryptonite.  I spent most of the morning changing our locks and last night blew quality college football-watching time hiding all of our important documents.  We've become refugees in our own home. 

On the bright side I haven't thought much about the Broncos losing by 40 to the Lions.