This morning, as I was cleaning the litter boxes, my elderly cat made his way down the stairs. He sniffed and poked at each newly cleaned litter box, then proceeded to pee on the floor less than six inches from my foot.
It was the perfect, graphic summation of the past two weeks that I have spent in renovation hell.
What the @#$% is up with home improvement specialists, anyway?
Why have I just paid people, at a rate of twice my hourly RN salary, to walk all over me?
Why is it that, after being held hostage in my own home, waiting for these people to deign to make an appearance, I just smile and offer them a cup of coffee? Coffee which I can no longer drink because I'm pretty sure that I've just developed an ulcer? An ulcer that I don't have time to properly address because, as previously noted, I've been paying through the nose for the privilege of being held prisoner in my own home?
Come to think of it, my cat's demonstration of symbolism was a little on the subtle side.
End rant.
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