Ninth in a series. At this point in the renovation, we’ve moved all of our belongings at least once. From room to room. Downstairs. Back up. Back down.

 Renovation preparation began in June 2014 with protecting our artwork by moving it from the great room into the second bedroom, which serves as my man’s dressing room. Living without art sucks, so this interim gallery (which only shows part of our collection) kept us from completely freaking out.

Renovation preparation began in June 2014 with protecting our artwork by moving it from the great room into the second bedroom, which serves as my man’s dressing room. Living without art sucks, so this interim gallery (which only shows part of our collection) kept us from completely freaking out.

The upstairs bathroom is not quite complete. Soon it will become inaccessible as progress is made on the hardwood floors, which have been laid. Sanding, staining and sealing has begun in the bedrooms. We’ve kinda sorta moved downstairs, into what we call the hotel suite. 

Our clothes are in boxes and bags stashed hither and yon. Rustling through plastic sacks generates static electricity, which leads to unruly hair and the occasional zap. Items meant to cover unrelated body parts commingle in the chaos. Which explains the panties in the sock bin.

 Items we can live without are bagged, boxed and stacked in the mid-level utility room.  Stuff we need regularly is scattered across the lowest level.

Items we can live without are bagged, boxed and stacked in the mid-level utility room. Stuff we need regularly is scattered across the lowest level.

The other morning, I stubbed my pinky toe on a plastic box placed in that spot by none other than me. I cussed and hopped and kicked the damn thing again in retaliation and cussed and hopped some more. Poor little piggy still hurts. At least I had the sense to stack the boxes, trading convenience for relative safety.

This type of bedlam can lead to questions. Questions like, “Will this project ever end?” And, “How much more will I have to spend?” And, “Where is my deodorant?”

My love and I huddle in a queen-sized bed, a downgrade from the king that had been in the master bedroom but now leans against a wall of windows in the great room. My husband tosses, turns, bumps into me, dreams there’s a monster in his bed, wakes up, settles back to sleep and snores. I teeter on the edge of my side of the mattress.

 The king mattress is in the great room and we’re downstairs with some essential stuff.

The king mattress is in the great room and we’re downstairs with some essential stuff.

The hotel suite is a walk-out basement. Without the heated floors—the numbers all go to eleven—the space would maintain a steady temperature perfect for cave-aged blue cheese. The outdoor temperatures have been low. Single-digit low. Negative integer low. Record-breaking low. Wear socks to bed low.

A hot tub is conveniently located on the lower deck. A few steps from the bed. Fewer steps from the bathroom. Cool, right? In this weather, rather than recharging from a relaxing soak, we’d end up as spouse-cicles. Finns, we are not. Joining the polar bear club is not on my bucket list.

 Warmed by my husband-made coffee, trusty iPad at my side, I gaze out at the hot tub and yearn for a more manageable 32 degrees fahrenheit. Outside, the rain chain catches rays from the sun, but refuses to release its icy coating. 

Warmed by my husband-made coffee, trusty iPad at my side, I gaze out at the hot tub and yearn for a more manageable 32 degrees fahrenheit. Outside, the rain chain catches rays from the sun, but refuses to release its icy coating. 

Seeing the sunrise while huddled under the featherbed reminds me why I am an enthusiastic morning person. Even when I’m displaced. Confused. And cold. Very cold.

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AuthorVeronika Roo