Home Improvement Horror: The Rotting Hole Chronicles
I have come to the opinion, through many hard lessons, that nothing is ever as simple as what you might hope it would be. The most recent of these life lessons came about when I lost my mind for 15 minutes and decided to destroy my family room.
I don’t typically take up destroying things as a hobby, but on this particular day I was feeling a bit disgusted with my surroundings and decided that it was time to take evasive action. So, armed with a utility knife and a dose of strong will, I proceeded to cut the carpeting off of the steps leading into my family room. In itself, not a huge undertaking…but from that moment snow balled a series of events that I never could have planned out.
Originally my “plan” was to uncover the hard concrete surface of my family room floor and try out a technique which I had seen on a similar concrete floor belonging to my sisters’ in-laws. The technique, acid staining, created this amazing effect on the concrete surface, which made the concrete appear as if it were marbled and for a cost that fit comfortably into my budget. Looking back, I should have seen the signs: primarily when I actually said the words “This will be a cinch.”
I remember the moment vividly. I was on the floor, hunched over in a corner, fighting with a section of carpeting that was stubbornly jammed into the tack strip when I peered upward and spotted a loose piece of paneling. “What if we just rip this off too?” I said already working my screwdriver in between the section of paneling and the wall beneath. “Not sure that’s a good idea,” my husband said, as he worked on his own section of stubborn carpet. “Oh, come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” And with that, I ripped a huge section of the paneling away from the wall. “Oops,” was the only word that escaped my lips as I beamed at the bright white drywall surface beneath the dark colored paneling.
At that point I became committed to something more than just re-doing the floor in the room. I became committed to a much larger project that was going to obviously cost more money. But at the time, I didn’t really care. In hindsight, the only committing that should have been done was of me to a mental institution with a severe case of temporary insanity.
My moment of elation quickly started to evaporate once the paneling started to come away from the walls. What I initially uncovered, was that on the 9 foot wall, the top 12 inches had been patched in with something other than drywall. Instead, the former homeowners had decided that there was no need to go to the added expense of adding additional drywall to the top portion of the wall since their primary goal was to entomb the room in the darkest possible paneling available on the planet. So, the job got a little bit bigger. Now, not only were we going to have to do something with the newly exposed concrete floor, but we were also going to have to come up with a plan to repair the walls beneath the retched paneling.
Of course from there it got worse. We quickly discovered that around the area of the back door there had been some water leakage, which had caused the pathetically assembled drywall to start to mildew. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the area around the front window was in even worse condition. The area in the corner of our house, closely located to the huge bay window in the front of the room was nearly completely rotted away. Water had definitely taken its toll on the wooden exterior of the house, and had made its way through to the interior leaving nothing but destruction in its path. It was at this point that I realized we were no longer “remodeling” we were, in fact, “rebuilding”.
For those who don’t know me, let me give you this piece of information about myself. I have the very bad habit of insisting that I know how to do everything, when in fact, I do not. Now, that’s not information I care to share with everyone. In fact, where my immediate family is concerned, I would just prefer they go on thinking that I’m a genius at everything…it saves in a lot of arguments when I’m clearly right on a specific topic. This was a case, however, where I didn’t even pretend to know what to do. So, what does a semi-intelligent woman with internet access do when she’s faced with a problem and doesn’t know how to fix it? She Googles it.
So, turning in my handy utility knife and screwdriver, I hop onto my computer…call up Google and start thinking of how one would search for the solution to “Giant rotting hole in the side of your house”. Incidentally…if you have a giant rotting hole in the side of your house…Google doesn’t really offer a lot of valuable suggestions as to how you should fix it.
Faced in a bit of a quandary, I did what any other woman would do when she’s faced with a critical situation involving the structure in which she resides: she calls someone with testosterone. Now, I consider myself an extremely independent woman, but there are certain situations which deem necessary for a man to take control. One of which, is a giant rotting hole in the side of your house. So, I picked up my phone and dialed the number of the man I knew would have the answer: my father. Within minutes, I was explaining the situation, and he was readily offering suggestions as to how to solve the problem, as well as offering his assistance in helping me fix the giant rotting hole in the side of my house. Incidentally…have I mentioned that there was a GIANT ROTTING HOLE IN THE SIDE OF MY HOUSE???
The next weekend uncovered even more bad news. The source of the water which had caused the giant rotting hole in my house was in fact the giant bay window. It just so happened, after a quick look on Google, that the cheapest way to fix the problem with the giant window, was to remove it. So, I made the decision to remove the giant funnel from the front of the room and replace it with two traditional windows. Sounded easy enough, but then again…nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
So, the decision was made to remove the giant bay window. Of course that was the smartest decision to make, after all, the entire weight of the window had been supported by no more than a 2×4 wedged under one corner on the outside for the last couple of years. But, replacing the window not only meant the hassle of tearing it out of the wall, but also rebuilding a frame to support two regular windows. So, we’ve covered the fact that I’m not your average moron…how hard could it possibly be to make a box and stick a window in it? A lot harder than what you might think.
It was at this point that I picked up my handy telephone and called yet another man who would know exactly what to do: my grandfather. His reply was simple: “Sure, no problem.”
Now…had I really thought this situation out, I would have realized that one of the factors involved in the divorce between my grandparents was the fact that my grandfather was always building something…which, roughly translated, means he was always tearing something up.
My grandmother, along with my mother and her siblings, were full of tales of their lives with my grandfather. Holes in the wall…missing fireplaces…Christmas trees which spun so violently that the ornaments flew from their tiny hooks and pelted the children as they sat eyeing their Christmas packages. Where my grandfather was concerned, every project was a BIG project, even if it really shouldn’t be.
But, I was desperate. After all, I did have the giant rotting hole in the side of my house, and my grandfather in his many years of tearing things apart…had managed to construct a thing or two along the way. So, the decision was made to have him join in on the fun.
Before my grandfather could join us in the destruction, it was necessary for me to make a trip to the local Home Depot to purchase new windows to replace the one we were removing. It didn’t seem like a hard task, I mean I do know a thing or two about math. So, I came up with the measurements that fit the opening of the old window, divided it in half, making sure to leave room for framing material, and then called to make sure the windows were in stock before I made the trip.
The first person I spoke to on the phone was the operator…whose sole purpose is to direct people to the right department so that their individual needs could be met.
“Thank you for calling Home Depot….blah blah blah blah blah”
“I need to speak to someone in the window department.”
“Sure, please hold.”
So, I did what the woman commanded…and I held. And held. And held. And held. And held. In fact, I held so long that my ear had gone numb, and my entire existence had been diminished to a tiny blinking light on someone’s telephone.
“I’m sorry, they aren’t picking up.” The girl said when she finally got finished with her lunch break and realized that my line was still steadily blinking on her switchboard.
“Is there anyone I can talk to about some windows?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, they aren’t picking up.” She repeated. It was at this point that I was certain I wasn’t speaking to a real person, and instead some “I’m sorry they aren’t picking up” recording which switches on after a solid 30 minutes of hold time.
“Okay then,” I said, really not sure how to respond. “Um, Thanks.”
Not willing to take defeat quite so easily, I immediately dialed the number of the next nearest Home Depot location, where I was immediately connected to someone in the window department.
I explained my situation to the man at the other end of the phone, and told him exactly what size windows I needed. It was at this point that he asked a question I wasn’t prepared to answer.
“Would you like new construction windows or replacement windows?”
Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean? Did you not notice the distinct sound of estrogen in my voice? What in the world would make you think I knew the answer to such a question?
“I’m not sure.” I finally responded.
“You’re taking a window out?” he asked.
“Yes.” I said, and then went on to explain the giant bay window and replacing it with two regular windows.
“Then you need replacement windows.” He said, and I readily agreed based on the sole fact that he worked in the window department of Home Depot. And, we all know that if you work in a specific department of any store, you know everything there is to know about the type of product you are selling, or at least you SHOULD.
After informing me that they did indeed have these windows in stock, I assured him that I would be there the following day to pick up two of them. Apparently he didn’t understand what “I’ll be there tomorrow” meant, because when I arrived at the store the next day, the windows had all surprisingly vanished.
The gentleman at the store seemed apologetic enough about the mix up, and instantly offered to call the other local store to see if they had the windows available. (Quick side note: this would be the store that left me on hold long enough for me to need to shave my legs again.) After magically talking to someone in the window department of the other store within mere minutes, I was assured that they did indeed have my windows and they would be ready for me when I arrived. So, desperate for windows to put into the place where the giant funnel was residing, I made the trip to the “other” store.
I should have known better. I mean the entire trip had been one giant rush. Leaving my real job early to go to one Home Depot, only to be sent to the other Home Depot, while still trying desperately to make it back home in time to get ready for my night job at the local gym. Sometimes, you should just pay attention when fate says: “This is a bad idea.” But even when fate started screaming it in my ear, I just turned up the radio and drove a little faster.
I finally got to the other Home Depot, with only 10 minutes to spare before I would officially run out of time to make it back to my other job. Not a problem, I assured myself. After all, they had made a phone call so surely that would be all that was necessary. Sure enough, when I approached the window department I saw 2 giant windows sitting on a cart in the middle of the aisle. I quickly gave the young boy behind the counter my name and he pointed toward the cart. “There you go.” He said.
I have to admit I was a little shocked, after all, I was standing there in my work clothes, which consisted of a nice pair of jeans, a nice top and a pair of high heels. Surely he didn’t expect me to push this huge metal cart loaded with two giant windows all the way to the front of the store to check out? But, at the point that he turned and started walking the opposite direction from the cart, his point was clear. So, being the strong-willed and extremely buff woman that I am, I slung my purse over my shoulder and gave the cart a mighty heave. To my surprise it cooperated rather easily, and I maneuvered my way to the front of the store to pay for my purchase.
What came next was the part that really got my blood to the point of boiling. After paying for the giant windows, I asked the lady at the cash register if I could get some help loading the windows into my van. She looked at me; almost seeming shocked at the request, and simply said she’d try to find someone to help me out. Well…how nice of her. So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And suddenly, flashbacks of my phone call were coming back in full force. It was at that point that I made the conscious decision to actually find a way to leave the store before I was due to attend the graduation of my youngest child, and started to heave the cart toward the exit sign and out toward my van.
As I entered the parking lot, I immediately eyed a series of men standing aimlessly in the parking lot. There were two men standing directly next to my van engaging in idle chit-chat about drills or bits or whatever it is that men talk about in the parking lot at Home Depot. Next, I eyed a group of three construction looking type men standing near a truck which was parked in the row of cars right behind the row I was parked in. So, I turned on my charm. I stood up straight, I pushed my huge cart with authority, I gave my heels an extra commanding “clomp” against the pavement of the parking lot, and I made a point to make eye contact with each and every available man in the parking lot. It didn’t work.
Within moments I was at the rear of my van and I was struggling for what to do next. So, taking my time just a bit, I lowered the seat to allow room for the windows to fit into the back of the vehicle, I rearranged some of the clutter to make for a more level surface, and I began to realize that I was going to have to do the unimaginable…I was going to have to load the windows into my van all by myself.
So, I took a deep breath, and told myself that there was no way I was going to stand there and appear completely helpless. I started replaying the events of the previous days. I thought about the rotting hole in my house, I thought about being left on hold for a light year, I thought about traveling from one county to the next in search of windows that were now sitting right in front of me. Suddenly my adrenaline started to increase, and I felt more powerful than I had ever felt in my life. With a mighty heave, I lifted the first window from the cart and hoisted it into my van, feeling the muscles in my arms and shoulders scream out: “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?”
My increased adrenaline silenced the screaming of my muscles and completed the task of loading the first window. One down, one to go. By this time, my body seemed to know exactly what I was intending to do and fought harder against my super-human adrenaline levels. Luckily, the adrenaline won out, and I managed to hoist the second window in the van as well. Feeling empowered, feeling superior, feeling vindicated, I stood to bask in my accomplishment. It was at this point my moment of glory became marred by the sound of clapping from over my shoulder. Turning to see what the clapping was for, I immediately became aware that I was the star of the “show”.
“We had a bet that you couldn’t do it by yourself.” One of the construction worker looking men said out loud.
Suddenly a new feeling overcame me….pure unbridled RAGE. What kind of man would stand there and not only watch a woman load two HUGE windows into her van, but also make a BET that she wouldn’t be able to accomplish the task? What kind of slime ball would stand to the side and wait for the unthinkable to occur, like breaking a double paned sheet of glass, instead of offering his hand in assistance? I was appalled; I was literally disgusted at the behavior of these so called “men” and their juvenile wager in such a situation. I found myself questioning the very existence of chivalry, and in the heat of a very intense moment, with my adrenaline levels reaching an all time high; I did something that I never in a million years would have imagined myself doing in the parking lot of a Home Depot. I lowered the hatch to my van, raised my shoulders to maximize both my height and my bust size, and gave my hair a girly flip as I turned toward the group of men who were still engaging in chuckles over my window lifting “show”. With a huge smile, and in the sweetest most feminine voice I could conjure up, I spoke these words: “BITE ME!” Then turned and got into the van.
As I drove away from the cursed Home Depot, a new feeling of vindication overcame me, and I immediately reached for my cell phone so I could share the events of my afternoon. The first person on my list of people to call, my husband, the next…my mother.
When I arrived home, and frantically changed into my clothes for my other job, I was still finding that I was pumped from the experience, and decided to share it with everyone I ran into along the way. Even going so far as to take them to see the windows lying in the back of my van. What I didn’t realize at the time was that my victory would be short lived…and that what I would soon discover about my prized windows would manage to put a damper on the whole victory.
My Home Improvement Horror Story continued to drag on for months. My prized windows had to be returned, because as it turns out I didn’t really need replacement windows after all. The giant hole in the side of the house had to be fixed, which led to an even bigger puddle in the middle of my floor. The entire room eventually had to be re-drywalled and the back door had to be replaced. One thing lead to another thing which eventually lead to another – and the end result? The floor still isn’t done.
I don’t typically take up destroying things as a hobby, but on this particular day I was feeling a bit disgusted with my surroundings and decided that it was time to take evasive action. So, armed with a utility knife and a dose of strong will, I proceeded to cut the carpeting off of the steps leading into my family room. In itself, not a huge undertaking…but from that moment snow balled a series of events that I never could have planned out.
Originally my “plan” was to uncover the hard concrete surface of my family room floor and try out a technique which I had seen on a similar concrete floor belonging to my sisters’ in-laws. The technique, acid staining, created this amazing effect on the concrete surface, which made the concrete appear as if it were marbled and for a cost that fit comfortably into my budget. Looking back, I should have seen the signs: primarily when I actually said the words “This will be a cinch.”
I remember the moment vividly. I was on the floor, hunched over in a corner, fighting with a section of carpeting that was stubbornly jammed into the tack strip when I peered upward and spotted a loose piece of paneling. “What if we just rip this off too?” I said already working my screwdriver in between the section of paneling and the wall beneath. “Not sure that’s a good idea,” my husband said, as he worked on his own section of stubborn carpet. “Oh, come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” And with that, I ripped a huge section of the paneling away from the wall. “Oops,” was the only word that escaped my lips as I beamed at the bright white drywall surface beneath the dark colored paneling.
At that point I became committed to something more than just re-doing the floor in the room. I became committed to a much larger project that was going to obviously cost more money. But at the time, I didn’t really care. In hindsight, the only committing that should have been done was of me to a mental institution with a severe case of temporary insanity.
My moment of elation quickly started to evaporate once the paneling started to come away from the walls. What I initially uncovered, was that on the 9 foot wall, the top 12 inches had been patched in with something other than drywall. Instead, the former homeowners had decided that there was no need to go to the added expense of adding additional drywall to the top portion of the wall since their primary goal was to entomb the room in the darkest possible paneling available on the planet. So, the job got a little bit bigger. Now, not only were we going to have to do something with the newly exposed concrete floor, but we were also going to have to come up with a plan to repair the walls beneath the retched paneling.
Of course from there it got worse. We quickly discovered that around the area of the back door there had been some water leakage, which had caused the pathetically assembled drywall to start to mildew. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the area around the front window was in even worse condition. The area in the corner of our house, closely located to the huge bay window in the front of the room was nearly completely rotted away. Water had definitely taken its toll on the wooden exterior of the house, and had made its way through to the interior leaving nothing but destruction in its path. It was at this point that I realized we were no longer “remodeling” we were, in fact, “rebuilding”.
For those who don’t know me, let me give you this piece of information about myself. I have the very bad habit of insisting that I know how to do everything, when in fact, I do not. Now, that’s not information I care to share with everyone. In fact, where my immediate family is concerned, I would just prefer they go on thinking that I’m a genius at everything…it saves in a lot of arguments when I’m clearly right on a specific topic. This was a case, however, where I didn’t even pretend to know what to do. So, what does a semi-intelligent woman with internet access do when she’s faced with a problem and doesn’t know how to fix it? She Googles it.
So, turning in my handy utility knife and screwdriver, I hop onto my computer…call up Google and start thinking of how one would search for the solution to “Giant rotting hole in the side of your house”. Incidentally…if you have a giant rotting hole in the side of your house…Google doesn’t really offer a lot of valuable suggestions as to how you should fix it.
Faced in a bit of a quandary, I did what any other woman would do when she’s faced with a critical situation involving the structure in which she resides: she calls someone with testosterone. Now, I consider myself an extremely independent woman, but there are certain situations which deem necessary for a man to take control. One of which, is a giant rotting hole in the side of your house. So, I picked up my phone and dialed the number of the man I knew would have the answer: my father. Within minutes, I was explaining the situation, and he was readily offering suggestions as to how to solve the problem, as well as offering his assistance in helping me fix the giant rotting hole in the side of my house. Incidentally…have I mentioned that there was a GIANT ROTTING HOLE IN THE SIDE OF MY HOUSE???
The next weekend uncovered even more bad news. The source of the water which had caused the giant rotting hole in my house was in fact the giant bay window. It just so happened, after a quick look on Google, that the cheapest way to fix the problem with the giant window, was to remove it. So, I made the decision to remove the giant funnel from the front of the room and replace it with two traditional windows. Sounded easy enough, but then again…nothing is ever as easy as it seems.
So, the decision was made to remove the giant bay window. Of course that was the smartest decision to make, after all, the entire weight of the window had been supported by no more than a 2×4 wedged under one corner on the outside for the last couple of years. But, replacing the window not only meant the hassle of tearing it out of the wall, but also rebuilding a frame to support two regular windows. So, we’ve covered the fact that I’m not your average moron…how hard could it possibly be to make a box and stick a window in it? A lot harder than what you might think.
It was at this point that I picked up my handy telephone and called yet another man who would know exactly what to do: my grandfather. His reply was simple: “Sure, no problem.”
Now…had I really thought this situation out, I would have realized that one of the factors involved in the divorce between my grandparents was the fact that my grandfather was always building something…which, roughly translated, means he was always tearing something up.
My grandmother, along with my mother and her siblings, were full of tales of their lives with my grandfather. Holes in the wall…missing fireplaces…Christmas trees which spun so violently that the ornaments flew from their tiny hooks and pelted the children as they sat eyeing their Christmas packages. Where my grandfather was concerned, every project was a BIG project, even if it really shouldn’t be.
But, I was desperate. After all, I did have the giant rotting hole in the side of my house, and my grandfather in his many years of tearing things apart…had managed to construct a thing or two along the way. So, the decision was made to have him join in on the fun.
Before my grandfather could join us in the destruction, it was necessary for me to make a trip to the local Home Depot to purchase new windows to replace the one we were removing. It didn’t seem like a hard task, I mean I do know a thing or two about math. So, I came up with the measurements that fit the opening of the old window, divided it in half, making sure to leave room for framing material, and then called to make sure the windows were in stock before I made the trip.
The first person I spoke to on the phone was the operator…whose sole purpose is to direct people to the right department so that their individual needs could be met.
“Thank you for calling Home Depot….blah blah blah blah blah”
“I need to speak to someone in the window department.”
“Sure, please hold.”
So, I did what the woman commanded…and I held. And held. And held. And held. And held. In fact, I held so long that my ear had gone numb, and my entire existence had been diminished to a tiny blinking light on someone’s telephone.
“I’m sorry, they aren’t picking up.” The girl said when she finally got finished with her lunch break and realized that my line was still steadily blinking on her switchboard.
“Is there anyone I can talk to about some windows?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, they aren’t picking up.” She repeated. It was at this point that I was certain I wasn’t speaking to a real person, and instead some “I’m sorry they aren’t picking up” recording which switches on after a solid 30 minutes of hold time.
“Okay then,” I said, really not sure how to respond. “Um, Thanks.”
Not willing to take defeat quite so easily, I immediately dialed the number of the next nearest Home Depot location, where I was immediately connected to someone in the window department.
I explained my situation to the man at the other end of the phone, and told him exactly what size windows I needed. It was at this point that he asked a question I wasn’t prepared to answer.
“Would you like new construction windows or replacement windows?”
Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean? Did you not notice the distinct sound of estrogen in my voice? What in the world would make you think I knew the answer to such a question?
“I’m not sure.” I finally responded.
“You’re taking a window out?” he asked.
“Yes.” I said, and then went on to explain the giant bay window and replacing it with two regular windows.
“Then you need replacement windows.” He said, and I readily agreed based on the sole fact that he worked in the window department of Home Depot. And, we all know that if you work in a specific department of any store, you know everything there is to know about the type of product you are selling, or at least you SHOULD.
After informing me that they did indeed have these windows in stock, I assured him that I would be there the following day to pick up two of them. Apparently he didn’t understand what “I’ll be there tomorrow” meant, because when I arrived at the store the next day, the windows had all surprisingly vanished.
The gentleman at the store seemed apologetic enough about the mix up, and instantly offered to call the other local store to see if they had the windows available. (Quick side note: this would be the store that left me on hold long enough for me to need to shave my legs again.) After magically talking to someone in the window department of the other store within mere minutes, I was assured that they did indeed have my windows and they would be ready for me when I arrived. So, desperate for windows to put into the place where the giant funnel was residing, I made the trip to the “other” store.
I should have known better. I mean the entire trip had been one giant rush. Leaving my real job early to go to one Home Depot, only to be sent to the other Home Depot, while still trying desperately to make it back home in time to get ready for my night job at the local gym. Sometimes, you should just pay attention when fate says: “This is a bad idea.” But even when fate started screaming it in my ear, I just turned up the radio and drove a little faster.
I finally got to the other Home Depot, with only 10 minutes to spare before I would officially run out of time to make it back to my other job. Not a problem, I assured myself. After all, they had made a phone call so surely that would be all that was necessary. Sure enough, when I approached the window department I saw 2 giant windows sitting on a cart in the middle of the aisle. I quickly gave the young boy behind the counter my name and he pointed toward the cart. “There you go.” He said.
I have to admit I was a little shocked, after all, I was standing there in my work clothes, which consisted of a nice pair of jeans, a nice top and a pair of high heels. Surely he didn’t expect me to push this huge metal cart loaded with two giant windows all the way to the front of the store to check out? But, at the point that he turned and started walking the opposite direction from the cart, his point was clear. So, being the strong-willed and extremely buff woman that I am, I slung my purse over my shoulder and gave the cart a mighty heave. To my surprise it cooperated rather easily, and I maneuvered my way to the front of the store to pay for my purchase.
What came next was the part that really got my blood to the point of boiling. After paying for the giant windows, I asked the lady at the cash register if I could get some help loading the windows into my van. She looked at me; almost seeming shocked at the request, and simply said she’d try to find someone to help me out. Well…how nice of her. So, I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And suddenly, flashbacks of my phone call were coming back in full force. It was at that point that I made the conscious decision to actually find a way to leave the store before I was due to attend the graduation of my youngest child, and started to heave the cart toward the exit sign and out toward my van.
As I entered the parking lot, I immediately eyed a series of men standing aimlessly in the parking lot. There were two men standing directly next to my van engaging in idle chit-chat about drills or bits or whatever it is that men talk about in the parking lot at Home Depot. Next, I eyed a group of three construction looking type men standing near a truck which was parked in the row of cars right behind the row I was parked in. So, I turned on my charm. I stood up straight, I pushed my huge cart with authority, I gave my heels an extra commanding “clomp” against the pavement of the parking lot, and I made a point to make eye contact with each and every available man in the parking lot. It didn’t work.
Within moments I was at the rear of my van and I was struggling for what to do next. So, taking my time just a bit, I lowered the seat to allow room for the windows to fit into the back of the vehicle, I rearranged some of the clutter to make for a more level surface, and I began to realize that I was going to have to do the unimaginable…I was going to have to load the windows into my van all by myself.
So, I took a deep breath, and told myself that there was no way I was going to stand there and appear completely helpless. I started replaying the events of the previous days. I thought about the rotting hole in my house, I thought about being left on hold for a light year, I thought about traveling from one county to the next in search of windows that were now sitting right in front of me. Suddenly my adrenaline started to increase, and I felt more powerful than I had ever felt in my life. With a mighty heave, I lifted the first window from the cart and hoisted it into my van, feeling the muscles in my arms and shoulders scream out: “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?”
My increased adrenaline silenced the screaming of my muscles and completed the task of loading the first window. One down, one to go. By this time, my body seemed to know exactly what I was intending to do and fought harder against my super-human adrenaline levels. Luckily, the adrenaline won out, and I managed to hoist the second window in the van as well. Feeling empowered, feeling superior, feeling vindicated, I stood to bask in my accomplishment. It was at this point my moment of glory became marred by the sound of clapping from over my shoulder. Turning to see what the clapping was for, I immediately became aware that I was the star of the “show”.
“We had a bet that you couldn’t do it by yourself.” One of the construction worker looking men said out loud.
Suddenly a new feeling overcame me….pure unbridled RAGE. What kind of man would stand there and not only watch a woman load two HUGE windows into her van, but also make a BET that she wouldn’t be able to accomplish the task? What kind of slime ball would stand to the side and wait for the unthinkable to occur, like breaking a double paned sheet of glass, instead of offering his hand in assistance? I was appalled; I was literally disgusted at the behavior of these so called “men” and their juvenile wager in such a situation. I found myself questioning the very existence of chivalry, and in the heat of a very intense moment, with my adrenaline levels reaching an all time high; I did something that I never in a million years would have imagined myself doing in the parking lot of a Home Depot. I lowered the hatch to my van, raised my shoulders to maximize both my height and my bust size, and gave my hair a girly flip as I turned toward the group of men who were still engaging in chuckles over my window lifting “show”. With a huge smile, and in the sweetest most feminine voice I could conjure up, I spoke these words: “BITE ME!” Then turned and got into the van.
As I drove away from the cursed Home Depot, a new feeling of vindication overcame me, and I immediately reached for my cell phone so I could share the events of my afternoon. The first person on my list of people to call, my husband, the next…my mother.
When I arrived home, and frantically changed into my clothes for my other job, I was still finding that I was pumped from the experience, and decided to share it with everyone I ran into along the way. Even going so far as to take them to see the windows lying in the back of my van. What I didn’t realize at the time was that my victory would be short lived…and that what I would soon discover about my prized windows would manage to put a damper on the whole victory.
My Home Improvement Horror Story continued to drag on for months. My prized windows had to be returned, because as it turns out I didn’t really need replacement windows after all. The giant hole in the side of the house had to be fixed, which led to an even bigger puddle in the middle of my floor. The entire room eventually had to be re-drywalled and the back door had to be replaced. One thing lead to another thing which eventually lead to another – and the end result? The floor still isn’t done.
