…because no one wants to hear it. Let’s just say my back is Messed Up. This means that for the past few weeks I haven’t been able to bend forward more than 15 degrees without stabby stabby knives jabbing and twisting into my spine. Unfortunately, if there is a small kid or two in your house, you have to bend. A lot. All day. Or, like me, you squat down like an old lady. A lot. All day. And you’re grouchy. You know, because of the stabby and the jabbing.
So instead of focusing on that, I’ll just finally do an update on our floor rescue. (It’s a blessing the internet doesn’t allow us to smell the Before photos.)
This project was not without its trials. As we’ve been burned by contractors before, I spent a lot of time last fall interviewing flooring guys, finding the least crappy laminate, and researching deals. When I told one candidate that, “We don’t really live in a ‘hardwood floor’ neighborhood” (referring to our late-1970’s cookie-cutter subdivision) he said, “True. You can’t put lipstick on a pig.”
Haahahah… huh? Did he just call my house a pig?
We finally just couldn’t say no to Home Despot and their crazy installation deal. So their measuring contractors came out and measured. (Remember, if you mention contractors in the first act, you know what will happen in the last act, right?)
The day before Demo we had our own Destruction Party at which the kids were allowed to do all the Sharpie related damage they wanted.
The next day was all jack-hammers and dust. At the end of it the flooring foreman came to me with the bad news: our slab wasn’t smooth enough. They would need to pour a layer of concrete over the entire house. (cue dinging cash register sound effect) This would also necessitate leaving all day. Okay. A little tricky with two kids and 16 day old chicks, but they assured me it would be dry after dinner.
When we came home late that evening there were still puddles of wet cement throughout the living room, hall and master bedroom. We had to tip-toe through and carefully drag our mattress from Violet’s still carpeted room to a dry spot in our own, and pray that the kids didn’t wake up in the night and wander through the muck. But we felt relieved because it would all be over in 24 hours. (foreshadowing)
All the next day, with the cement finally dry, I was trapped in Graham’s still carpeted bedroom while the flooring guys installed the laminate. This was a quick process, punctuated by the forman cursing colorfully with a heavy Eastern European accent at his stoned-but-capable assistant. At the end of it he came to me with the bad news: (aaaand here is the last act) there wasn’t enough laminate. They had been able to finish everything except half our room. Of course. “Is not our fault!” he insisted. “We make no mistake!” Sure enough, there wasn’t a single unused board, and no more waste than a couple of shaved corners. The measuring contractors had measured wrong.
What followed was a series of irate phone calls and buck-passing and blame-throwing and meetings and more irate phone calls. In the end, we had to sleep on a half finished floor in an unfurnished room for a week, which was a week less than they first insisted was possible. So that’s a happy ending, I guess.
But the final product turned out just fine. Great for random kids to come over and drive remote control cars.
(How’s that for not talking about my old-lady back?)