Hit the road, leaky roof & slipshod contractors. Now. July 29, 2008 18:49 1 Comment
I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I have thrown up my hands. I am done. Done. Really.
Recall the leak we had way back when (I exaggerate) during The Bathroom Drama? When His Bertness thought the leak was caused by a toilet? Then when that proved not to be the case, he decided it was the gutter? Well. Then. Guess what? It wasn’t the gutter! No. Beloved hubby then decided it was the roof. Bingo. The third time is indeed the charm.
(Oh, is this the point where I beg your tolerance for going totally off topic? OK. Here goes. I had good home training. Please, darling, much appreciated readers, be patient. Let me vent. Let me share my woes. You do not have enough in your own life, I’m sure. You need mine to make your day complete.)
So. My job in this process was to call roofers for an estimate. The first 3 numbers I called (In business for 40 years! Family-owned for 20 years! Locally owned, locally operated, 27 years!) were disconnected. Out of business. Gone. Gone. Gone. I left messages at two others. One returned my call within 24 hours. I cannot tell you how rare this is in Prescott.
(Sewing is involved in this post. Really. Have faith. Keep reading.)
Now let me go back, dear readers, back, back, back, way back to two years ago when we had major rehab work done on the second floor. Nearly all of the roof was replaced. I thought the contractor did a lousy job on the roof at the time. The shingles on the roof edge stood straight out, like Louise Brooks’ bangs after a night of tossing and turning. Back then, way, way back then, I asked the contractor about this. He assured me in that way that only good ole boys in cowboy boots with radiant smiles and irresistible Lab pups can, that his crew would be back in the summer when the composition shingles were more malleable. Then, with the Arizona heat, it would be a cinch to arc the shingles. Knowing nothing about hip roofs, I believed him. Beloved hubby, knowing precious little more on this subject, thought it sounded plausible, too. Summer came. The roofers didn’t. I called. The story this time was that the shingles would eventually curve on their very own. The hard-working life of the shingle — I bet you didn't know. Again, hubby and I thought mmmm, sounds credible. We have lives. We got busy. We didn’t forget about the shingles, but they were a hassle we didn’t want to deal with. And guess what? The shingles still haven’t the slightest arc. They are as flat as land in southern Louisiana.
So. The new roofer showed up today. On time. Early, actually. This is so rare that he deserves a street with his name. He climbs up on our roof — a perilous task, since our house is perched on a hill. And he pronounces our roof in horrible shape, says the folks who did the roof did a lousy job, says we should file a complaint — and pronto — with the state. I am totally pissed. Totally. Overwhelmingly.
So, it was in this mood that I opened the Singer Sewing Book, copyright 1949, and saw this picture, optimistically cutlined Your Sewing Machine Makes Decorating Easy! (Exclamation mark mine all mine.) Ummmm emmmm. I believe 'em. But. Love the gray. Love the jolt of green. Love the slipcovers. Love them. Totally. And this book proposes that the reader make them. Is that preposterous or what? Completely. I say. How the heck do you make — all by yourself, without aid of an upholsterer — slipcovers that are so beautifully fitted? That look modern. Sleek. Tailored. Sophisticated yet inviting.
I thought about slipcovers. How fabulous they would look on our den sofa. How clean they would be— after all, I could wash them, every day if I chose. This would make Henry Jones, our Lab-Dane mix, as happy as a pig in mud. He lives on the sofa, and he loves fresh linen. So do I. Slipcovers. Clean. Sleek. Inviting. Baby, I was lost in the dream. Lost. Totally. Then, alas, reality intervened. Jarred my
brief slipcovered reverie. Because how could I possibly make slipcovers? I’m having a hard time with my muslin for a simple dress. As you know. I’ve cut out the pattern. I’ve marked it with Sharpies. And then, fear. Stark, immobilizing fear. Fear 10, action 1. Denise trapped. Caught in between.
So. Later, after a nap with His Bertness, I visited Posie Gets Cozy, a very, very pretty blog http://rosylittlethings.typepad.com/posie_gets_cozy/ and one that I have taken to visiting frequently, and what do I see but her living room, so clean, so lovely, so complete, with pets who double as adorable photo props. One doggie. One kitty. Not a slipcover in sight, but there are pillows she made herself, and gorgeous draperies (she probably made them herself, too). I want that. I do. Yesterday. Now. After all, as a songwriter once said: "time hurries by, we're here and gone." It's true. It is.
So. There you go. My day. Bobby Goren from L & O:CI seasons 1-4, save me. Save me from leaking roofs. Save me from careless contractors. Save me from myself. Quick. There's no time to waste. None. Because time hurries by. We're here and gone. Etc.