You’ll never believe what happened to me today so I’m just going to tell you. I mean, if you want, you can try to guess before you read the rest of this paragraph. In fact, I got you. This paragraph will not include what happened to me.
This one doesn’t either.
Okay, now, I’m going to tell you what happened. Let’s see how close your guess is:
We have to get into the wayback machine. Are you settled? Seat belt on? Cool. Cool. Let’s get going …. About two years before my husband died, we started noticing some problems with our front steps. They were beginning to crack a little, not bad but you know these things don’t fix themselves. They’re just going to get more cracked and more cracked – a little like me, actually – until finally, it’s time to give up some of that lovely, lovely cash to take on the repairs.
We might have been able to repair early for less cash but once sickness entered the house, other things left, including motivation and money for early repairs. Anyway, over a year ago, I finally called three companies for estimates. I had a cost in my head and was anxious to see how over or under the estimates came in. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Since the only solution for the steps was a total demolition and re-build, and the cost was A LOT, I put off the work for another year. Yeah, I know. Shut up. Don’t remind me that, with the recession and supply shortages, all I really did was shoot myself in the foot because this year, I couldn’t put it off any longer and the price for supplies went up.
The most important part of the re-build was that the end product had to be identical to the original steps, regardless of cost implications. Why, you ask? Well, I live in a house designated as a historic landmark, in a historic district. It’s a big deal. In fact, it’s a little like living in Colonial Williamsburg. Except colder.
And now, let’s step out of the wayback machine, back to today. With the demolition behind us, and the brick walls up and in beautiful shape, it’s time to pour the concrete. My crew is out front with an absolute monster of a cement mixer. The day is cool and overcast but there’s no threat of rain. It’s perfect. Or so you’d think.
Work has been underway since 7AM. The guys are joking now and again. Every once in a while I hear, “More water.” Everything is going as planned. Then, I hear louder voices outside, voices other than my very Jersey-sounding contractor, that is. I assume (wrongly, it turns out) that it’s my elderly neighbor. (He’s a retired architect – a little curmudgeon-y but still lovely – who likes to be involved in every project so he often stops by to kibitz with the workers.)
Suddenly, there’s a loud knocking at the door. Just a heads up here: A knock at your front door is not normal when your front steps are missing or, you know, filled with very wet concrete.
I actually ran to the door, concerned obviously, and found my contractor, we’ll call him Nick (because his name is Nick), calf-deep in the wet concrete (this part IS normal) on the top step and he’s FIRED UP.
Now, a little side note about Nick: He’s older than I am, shorter than I am, and much nicer than I am. Seeing him fired up was astonishing because he is kind to the workers, polite to the nosy neighbors, and an absolute treat to me.
Turns out that one of those neighbors told our historical society that I am making changes to my house without permission. I know all my neighbors – at least, I know their pets – and I can’t figure out who wouldn’t just ask me what I’m doing and whether I filed for permission, etc.
And that makes me think that my other next door neighbor – not the elderly architect – is the one who turned me in. She’s been mad at me since one of our other neighbors (and yes, I do know which one but I’m not telling, ever) called the police one day to do a welfare check on her because her dogs had been barking for hours.
I know what you are thinking and you’re right. We are, in fact, a microcosm of the NextDoor app. Most of the time, everything is fine but every once in a while, someone’s kid pulls the petals of someone else’s tulips and all hell breaks loose.
So now, even though I am literally paying extra to make sure that my steps stay the same, I’m still going to have to go before the historical society board to prove that I didn’t make any changes. You know what happens if they don’t like what you’ve done? You guessed it, didn’t you? They make you undo and redo to their satisfaction. And that’s why Nick was absolutely RIGID with anger this morning.
He told me that the board “would be calling me.” Since he’s got that Jersey accent, it sounded a little like he was saying that I should watch for a horse’s head in my bed. But since it came from a guy who looks a little like my grandfather, I’m not sure if I should be worried or if I should expect to receive a tin of Grandpa’s favorite butter mints.
So, how close was your guess? Did you think I was going to tell you that I won the lottery? I don’t play so if I ever tell you that I won the lottery, I was either hacked or kidnapped.
Hope your tomorrow is less eventful than mine will be …. What do you think will happen if I just don’t answer the phone when they call? Can they put me in irons? I wonder if they have a dungeon for disobedient homeowners.
Stay safe.
