home depoor

Okay. The day had come to take our various measurements and lists and buy supplies for the garage apartment makeover. We'd spent a couple of weeks working on window restoration (see previous post) and tearing out the problem sections of the apartment. Like laminate over shiplap. That had gotten moisture behind it; and crumbled, bowed and smelled like mold. Like drywall that had gotten wet because we had a termite problem (past tense) and the wood under the window sill was like Swiss cheese. Rotten Swiss cheese. And there was drywall tape making appearances all over the place. To name a few things.

Three hours in Home Depot. Three fucking hours of comparing products and weighing the pros and cons. Three hours of occasionally finding an orange apron that knew what we were talking about and which aisle we could find it on. I can't even stand shopping for the things I really like for three hours. And I like home improvement do-it-yourself stores.

I figure we were more than halfway through the expenses on this long overdue project. Halfway through, but done for the day. $300. Holy shit. For the amount of lumber, drywall and bags of random supplies $300 really wasn't that bad. Sad side note: when we add up the total cost of this 500 sq ft job it will probably equal the patient cost of a single 1cm x 1cm dental crown. ONE crown. (If it isn't already apparent, in addition to the property tax people sucker-punching us, the dentist left-jabbed us with some staggering estimates.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, we checked out and guided the wobbly lumber dolly out to the truck. I am often irritated when men assume I need help loading up my purchases. Even if they work there. I am strong and able, dammit. On the other hand, I appreciate service and try not to polish that feminist chip I have on my shoulder. This time, I was three hours exhausted and three hundred dollars poorer, so I figured, what the fuck, let the eager guys load this heavy stuff into the truck bed. I thought about lecturing them on the wonders of bungee cords in securing a load but told myself to stop being so controlling. This was their job. I did warn them not to ding my drywall, however.

We live about 2 miles from Home Depot. It was a Sunday afternoon and the rain had finally stopped (yay, no soggy drywall!). Four blocks from the store, crossing a busy street, we hit a slight bump. The contents of the entire truck bed sailed out into the intersection.

Almost perfectly stacked.

Barbara pulled over as I jumped from the still-moving truck yelling, We've gotta rescue our investment! It is clear that that says something about me that I don't want to over-analyze. The two good Samaritans whose path was blocked by our debris got out of their truck to help us haul everything out of the street. The other three lanes of traffic resisted the urge to run over our drywall and half-dozen 12-foot lengths of lumber. Investment saved.

Next time, we load our own fucking truck.