High Anxiety

Two guys are out front (and alternately, in the basement), fixing our front columns and basement window (which, of course, needs more than just replacing, since the sill is rotted out and the plaster underneath is cracked). I’m trying not to panic, even though I just heard them arguing in Polish about the sorry state of something that’s terribly wrong with the columns and the faux porch above them. No, I don’t understand Polish – but I do understand what worried looks, pointed fingers, and loud voices mean: disaster.

The house painters are due tomorrow morning, and they’ll be living here for the next few weeks, which means my life will become a living hell as they scrape and sand up a storm. I can’t wait for the paint fumes to send me into Migraineland, a place I spend too much of my time visiting, as it is.

Yes, it’s a bone fide fact: I don’t do well with change, repair people, noise, smells, or life in limbo. Please, I’m begging you – don’t offer me any be positive comments, because they’re not going to lower my anxiety levels or calm me down. I’m on high alert, here, people, trying not to crumble like my old, needs-to-be-fixed house.

Oh, it’s gonna be a long, crazy September. Keep your fingers crossed that it’s sealed with a kiss.