I was on the phone with my step-mom the other day when the conversation turned to my messy painting habits, and I confessed that by now I have paint on my jacket, shoes, jeans, and even my socks.
My step-mom expressed concern about my jacket, but I assured her, “Oh, no, it’s only my old camping jacket. It’s ancient and full of ash holes from sitting around the campfire.”
I should have known she wouldn’t let me get away with that. She hesitated, then let me have it: “Are you saying there’s an ash hole in your jacket? So who’s the ash hole?”
Needless to say, I laughed my ash off.
And I was ready for a good laugh, because my patience with the construction process is wearing thin.
But… *drumroll please* …we might get the all-important Occupancy Permit in a few days!
These days Hubby and I utter the words “Occupancy Permit” in the same way one might say “Holy Grail”: with capital letters and in a hushed tone of awe. The other day our neighbour’s truck went by towing a flatbed trailer with an oak dining room suite on it, and Hubby said, “Mike got his Occupancy Permit last week.”
I sighed with the same hopeless desire as if I’d just found out Mike had won $50 million in the lottery.
Wait, no. If he’d won $50 million I’d be pleased as punch for him. But an Occupancy Permit? I admit it: I’m rabidly envious. Imagine, an actual dining table and chairs. And a kitchen to cook real food instead of microwaving plastic prepared stuff.
And maybe… dare I even think it? *whispers* A dresser and a closet. We’ve been living out of suitcases for so long I can’t even remember if I have other clothes besides the same fourteen T-shirts I’ve been wearing over and over for the past five months.
But despite my limited sartorial options, I’ve discovered that no matter how few clothes you have in your suitcase, the item you want will always be at the bottom. And when you have multiple T-shirts of approximately the same colour, you will have to unfold each and every one of them before you finally find the one you want.
And socks? I’ve previously speculated that socks are the work of evil; and their behaviour in my suitcase confirms it. No matter how carefully I pair and arrange them so the best ones are on top, the sock imps rampage through my suitcase at night, pulling pairs apart and hiding the best socks in odd corners while moving the second-string ones to the top.
Here’s proof: My painting shoes have holes in them. Ergo, I have a pair of socks with blue paint on the toes. How many times do you think I’ve pulled that pair out of my suitcase thinking they were good socks?
Yep, you guessed it. Every… single… time! This despite the fact that each time I find them, I push them back to the bottom of the suitcase.
So, between the malevolent sock imps and the irritation of STILL not having a finished house, I’m a woman on the edge. If we don’t get our Occupancy Permit by next week, I’m gonna put on my ash hole jacket and start kickin’ ash!
Am I the only one with sock imps in my suitcase?