It is the real first day of the kitchen redo, and by that I mean the first day of actual destruction. The downstairs is taped off in an attempt to mitigate the dust from the demolition. Attempt is the operative word here. I realize it's not working, as I sit captive in our upstairs bedroom, gasping for breath, paranoid that my lungs are filling with some horrible substance being unearthed from the walls of this 100-year-old house.
I am sequestered in my makeshift "office", praying that my clients don't call just as the proverbial "shxx hits the fan", or more accurately, as the sledgehammer hits the tile floor. The blue tile floor. The floor that 15 years ago was one of the KEY reasons we bought this house in the first place because it reminded me of France. Today, I can hardly wait until the floor is pulverized beyond recognition! What does that say about our style tastes, I wonder? Or more to the point, what does that say about the fickleness of humans? Something that I loved has turned into something that I despise. Maybe I'm getting a bit too philisophical. Must be the dust particles. Or the fact that I'm starving because I didn't think through the logistics of this process. How can I get to some food, coffee, or even my car keys so that I can go out and buy either?
Stay tuned for Day 2. Hopefully, the air will have cleared somewhat by then.
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