Baby Steps

You guys.  After 22 weeks of insanity, we have decided that the time has come to just walk away and abandon Project Pimp My Basement.

What?  Yes, of course I’m kidding.  What the hell would I write about if I didn’t have the basement chronicles?  And what would I do with my time if I didn’t have to run to Home Depot every single day?  I would be lost without my ongoing chats in the Flooring section.  Or my kids asking what time we’re going to ride in the orange cart.

So where do things stand?  I’ll put it this way.  Remember when we had some wagers placed on the original five week timeline?  If you bet on the “outrageously high” side and said, say, twelve weeks.  And then doubled it?  Well, you still might not win.

I’ll withhold photos at this stage {I’m going for the HGTV “big reveal” moment}, but I’ll tell you what we have in the works.

First, there is visible progress.  Which beats the hell out of the invisible progress that allegedly transpired for months.

There are stairs.  Which is nice.  We’re obviously going for total luxury here.  Plus, it got dicey to take our friends and family down the ladder for the “I Don’t Understand What the Hell Is Taking So Long Tour.”  Especially after a few bottles of wine.

There are lights.  Some lights.  Not all of them, but enough to see that guys are down there working.  Or just living there — I’m not sure which.  I haven’t checked the basement fridge in a while — but last time, most of the beer was gone.  {The wine stays upstairs with me.  Obviously.}

There is noise.  All day, every day.  Which makes my kids scream.  Which creates more noise.

Oh, and there are walls.  Sanded, primed and painted walls.  Which gives me hope.  And after a little war with the Benjamin Moore color wheel, I think I finally found a shade of navy for my laundry room that works.  Because the first two choices made my husband ask if Suicide Goth Den was the look I was going for.

Speaking of the laundry room, I have…wait for it…

I have two outlets staring at me.  Begging to be hooked up to — no, wed to — their soul mates, Shiny New Washer and Dryer.  {Did I mention 22 weeks?}.  And it looked promising for  awhile.  I especially enjoyed the very earnest look my contractor directed squarely at my eyes on January 16, when he said: “We will do everything we can to have those machines installed this week.” It seems by “everything we can,” he meant “notsomuch, really.”  And by “this week,” he meant “this fiscal quarter.”  It’s my fault for thinking otherwise — I should really speak his language by now.

This is all good news for Bruce, who owns the laundromat and will probably come over for Christmas Dinner after all of the time we’ve spent together these last few months.  He’s always pretty excited to get more business out of me.  I think I heard him squeal when my daughter mentioned all the painting they’re doing at pre-school — without smocks.  Come to think of it, while I was weighing in my latest pay-per-pound laundry haul (56 lbs), he turned his back to me and called his wife.  Something about pulling the trigger on that beer tour of Germany they’ve always wanted to take.  Glad to help, Bruce.

But, you know, it’s all fine.  We are learning important life skills.

Like staying grounded.  Because the sight of the red dumpster in my driveway every day and its companion piece, the port-a-john, prevents us from trying to keep up with the Joneses.

We are also improving the kids’ eye-hand coordination.  All of the work being done underfoot now causes the hundred-year-old floors on our main level to spring a nail pretty regularly.  So we get out the hammer before dinner and play Whack-a-Mole.  The Tetanus Version.

Baby steps, I guess.  Like stairs.  And semi-goth walls.  And outlets at the ready for that laundry.  Any day now.

Or so I’m told.