There have been a lot of days between Day 6 and Day 7, but not much happening during them. Workers show up for an hour here, an hour there, plumbers plumb and electricians wire, but nothing looks very different than it had before.
The parade of cute workers seems to have waned, replaced by gentlemen who all look like they could be cast in The Sopranos. The sheetrock guy who arrived today reminds me of Frank Zappa, but without any of the wit or charm. I guess the honeymoon is over.
Much of my time has been spent shopping online for hardware. The whole process makes me want to turn into a Marxist. Why are there so many types of towel racks? Robe hooks? Toilet paper holders? Who needs all these choices? I feel like I need a special education just to understand how to evaluate them.
I spend time with Tracey (my designer) and my contractor, standing in a stripped away space, going through minute details in what feels like a language I don’t understand. “What’s a soffit?” I whisper to Tracey. “Bull-nosed tiles? What’s that?”
The contractor will talk for five minutes straight while pointing and zipping out his tape measure. “Translate,” I say to Tracey, as if I’m with my bi-lingual Jewish friends who slip quietly into Hebrew when they want to gossip freely in front of their kids.
I make lists. I write checks. I wait for the new eggs to hatch. We’re all nesting.