Hello there. I know…I know. It’s been quite awhile since I’ve done a blog post, but I’m back at last. Our home has been undergoing a major kitchen renovation (since February!) and I completely underestimated the havoc it would cause in my life, not to mention the unholy mess! (Dang you, HGTV, for all those one-hour television shows demonstrating short, painless renovations!)

Over the last eight months, living in our home has not been at all conducive to thinking…let alone writing, and besides that, my muse flew straight out the window the moment she heard the buzzing of saws and pounding of hammers. (I can’t blame the poor thing, In hindsight, I should’ve vacated with her!)

Now that things have settled down, I’m anxious to tell you a story. Truth, in this case, is stranger than fiction (and far more entertaining), so let me began the saga of my spiteful house.

 

The hubster and I own a home, which is well over one-hundred-years-old. It’s charming and brimming with character. I LOVE this house to pieces, although I do find the basement with its creepy stone foundation a tad bit disconcerting at times.

 

 

 

 

I have long been suspicious my house is a living, breathing entity who does not easily embrace change, and I’m now more convinced of it than ever. Over the years, our house has adamantly refused to cooperate with the myriad of repairs and renovations we’ve had to make to her. She has never willingly accepted anything new, particularly the plumbing, wiring and windows, and this time was no exception. Ask the carpenters and subcontractors who have been unlucky enough to deal with her chicanery. (Exhibit A).

 

 

 

The kitchen renovation was the largest we’ve ever undertaken and I think we pushed our house over the edge when she lost her back stairway to the new pantry area of our kitchen. Oozing petulance, she pulled every dirty trick in the book to slow the process.

 

 

 

 

I tried to sweet-talk her and convince her that everything would be okay, but she was having none of it. Reaching her boiling point, she took her revenge on me, and the hubster as well.

 

 

 

 

 

The last week in August on a stifling summer night, she had the audacity to push me down a flight of stairs, causing me great bodily harm. No. I’m not being dramatic and taking creative license here. No… seriously, I’m not. I REALLY had 3 broken ribs, a lacerated liver, and a compression fracture of my spine. My hand to heaven! (Now, the doctor said the fall down the stairs was due to a blackout caused by dehydration and hypotension, but I’m not buying it! Not for one single second!)

Two weeks later, my husband fell down two steps onto the cement floor in the garage rupturing a lumbar disc in his back, and compressing a nerve in his leg. (Coincidence? I think not.) The hubster had back surgery and has recovered quite nicely. We’re both fine and perambulating about town now, although six weeks on my back has turned me into a butterball.

 

I believe the house is done retaliating for the renovation, at least I hope so, because we’ve still got flooring to go down and I’m not in the mood for any more of her insolence! I have cautioned her to carefully consider any further retribution, because I know where we keep the matches.