HA! You thought I was a Mommy-Blogger!

OMG.

This blog? The cute posts about my cute kids and sweet hubs? Over. Bitching about the house is what I am all about these days and since I would like to hang on to a friend or two in real life, you, dear Internet, are going to have to bear the brunt of my frustration.

All those jokes about home remodeling? All the warnings about stress and tension? All the myths? True. But, then, you knew that didn't you?

Now, the lovely Hugh and I are not remodeling virgins as we re-did the kitchen about 4 years ago. We had the kitchen gutted in August, the very day that we were hosting an engagement party for my brother in law and his now wife and 80 other guests... the bartender got lost so our nanny learned to make Rum BaBas very quickly, the food was late, and the bride's sweet granny got looped after her grandson poured her 2 Jack and Cokes that were strong enough to choke a horse... it was, in a word, excellent, but, this is all part of a story for another time, and the tile guy finished placing the last accent in the backsplash the day before Thanksgiving... so yeah, we thought we were veterans of the horror of having work done on the house. We were also poor and enjoyed an unbelievable mutual hate of our contractor... he came in one afternoon and took all the drawers with him, but again, I digress. So, here we are, older, wiser, some cash in the bank, and with a contractor we like. We may love him, but it is too early in the relationship to be pledging our troth.

Yet, still a nightmare.

In this past week alone I have met with the plumber (love him), the tile dude (love him too) and the fireplace guy (just like-like him). All good of course. The wheels are a-movin'. We are cookin' with gas. We are making decisions.

Or not.

Each person who comes to the house is quite obviously an expert in his field. They ask us (me, really as they come during the afternoons) all sorts of pertinent and intelligent questions:

Expert What type of tile are you thinking of putting in the new shower?

Self Type of tile? Well, definitely something, you know, tile-ish. White?

Expert Do you want the fireplace in the courtyard raised or flush to the ground?

Self Oh, raised absolutely. Or, flush. Flush is also good.

Expert Where is your main kick-back pump for the house?

Self Um, it's... what?

Right. So, that is going really well. The sheer horror of realizing that, each and every decison needs about eleventy million other decisons to be made first, is killing me. There is of course, also the BIG fun of trying to reach an agreement with my husband on every little thing. We need to agree on bricks, and paint and shutters. We need to agree on wood floors and sofas and light fixtures. We need to fucking agree on shower tile and I tell you Internet, it is just too much for one girl to handle.

Remember the pretty Plantation color paint I was so keen on for the living room? Well it is gone. Poof! Bye-bye sucker! Please welcome:

Spray With Seahorses.





Now, I like this stupidly named color as much as the next person, but, I was pretty jazzed for Plantation. HELLO! This is, as the (not so) lovely Hugh keeps reminding me, all about the COMPROMISE.

Up yours compromise.

Hugh says things like, "I would like an all white bathroom". I respond with, "That will remind me of a public restroom." No offense to those of you with all white bathrooms... your bathrooms probably aren't the size of an actual airplane lavatory and therefore, in your bath, white tile probably looks fresh and expansive.

Hugh says, "I would like a bright red front door." I say, "I would like a glossy black front door."

Hugh would like palms and bougenvilla and I want roses and hydrangea. Hugh wants bamboo and I am all about the walnut. Hugh apparently wants a crazy wife and I am happy to deliver.

Today, we spent an hour, one solid hour, sixty precious minutes, discussing sofa fabric.

Someone needs to save us from ourselves.