all the cats have little brown socks, but my friends keep me sane

[freckles_and_doubt]

DSCN1769, originally uploaded by extemporanea.

I wasn't prepared for the extent to which this renovation process has assaulted me on some sort of primal, psychological level: being in the house for any longer than an hour or so has me swinging wildly between suicidal and homicidal, although I suppose it could also be the PMT talking. I hate, hate, hate seeing my spaces invaded and brutalised: I hate having to come to terms with the fact that the world is filled with people, particularly builders, who simply don't hold important the same things I do. Yesterday a merry crew of EL plus jo&stv plus sven&tanya plus me did a several-hour furniture-removal and random-washing-and-boxing of all the stuff we should have boxed before the electrician started (see Interesting Patterns Left In Dust, above), and it's all Much Better, but I still hate it. Seeing my kitchen bits covered with a thick mat of red dust makes me feel obscurely guilty, as though I've failed somehow to sufficiently cherish my household gods.

On the upside, jo&stv fed me huevos rancheros and champagne for breakfast this morning, so I can't really complain that it's all bad.

Comments

[schedule5.livejournal.com]

No, no. It's not the PMT. Having one's home sanctuary suddenly change into a place of stress and upheaval, not to mention, in your case, broken down walls and builders dust, is a horrid, awful, root-rippingly stressful thing.

I'm glad you are being fed champagne for breakfast. You so deserve it.