We Can Clean That

Dressed in disposable clothes and respirator masks, our fire restoration crew poked through our home packing up anything they thought they could clean and save for us. Then the insurance agent entered our home and persuaded them to pack a little more. Suddenly, in her presence, things that moments before were "hazardous material," "toxic," and "trash" were pointed out with the exclamation "we can clean that!"

The fire restoration crew assured us that all things plastic or pressed wood were trash. The insurance agent begged to differ. She was positive that everything from TVs to assemble-yourself type furniture could be cleaned and restored as good as new. We were skeptical but didn't feel we had much choice. We would let them try and then we would work it out later with the insurance agent if needed.

It's later.

After 19 months, our stuff returned home. Please know that it did not take the fire restoration service 19 months to clean our things- it took 19 months for us to rebuild, move home, argue with the insurance company about what was being returned, and finally resign ourselves to getting back our crap. 

 And here it is.

We hand-picked a few sentimental items for the crew to take. The crew picked things to take. The insurance agent told them to take more. Then, the demolition crew shoveled the rest of our stuff out into several large dumpsters. The point is...we have no idea what is in those boxes. It's like Christmas. We have no idea what we're unwrapping and whatever it is, we haven't seen it in 19 months!   

The disappointing thing is, there isn't really that much of it. Each of those boxes contains on average about 5 items and 2 trees worth of packing paper. We've only opened a handful of boxes so far, but we can tell that we didn't really get much back. 

We left the furniture outside because...well...it stinks. And it's junk. 

Take our media cabinet, for example. It doesn't look so bad, huh? The photo doesn't really show the whole picture. This cabinet was just a few feet away from the flames that destroyed our kitchen and part of the family room. The heat was so intense that the big screen TV above this cabinet melted. The over-stuffed chair beside the cabinet burned. 

Wood and intense heat are not friends. 

 The cabinet is no longer one solid piece of furniture. We could lose quarters in those gaps. I'm sure it's still sturdy, right?

They returned Little Bean's bed. It is made of pressed wood which the fire restoration company told us they didn't like to take because it crumbles apart, but the insurance agent insisted.

 Looks fine, yeah?

No worries though. The insurance agent paid for a new headboard. Shaking my head. We'll just put a new headboard on there and it should hold up just fine. As long as nobody breathes on it.

They also brought back her Dora The Explorer desk.  

Don't mind Dora's new complexion. She's been ozoned to remove smoke odors. She smells great! 

Remember the chair with the shrunken rungs from our visit to the warehouse ?

All fixed!

That's courtesy of our Glue-It-Back-Together policy! You should make sure you have that option written into your insurance policy in case your house ever catches on fire. I bet if we add a new coat of paint they'll be good as new. 

And the icing on the cake...

Our dining room table. Yes, it's been licked by flames. No, that's not camera glare on the table. That is actually part of the finish now. The Boy said, "well, you like rustic. It's rustic." Yes, Son. It is certainly rustic. If only we decorated in Char. 

Of course, it was not all bad. We've already unpacked things we never thought we'd see again. 

Yes, they cleaned a bottle of dirt for us. Not just any dirt, now! That is red dirt from Oklahoma collected on a family vacation. There are a few of these bottles of dirt and I almost cried when I unearthed them from the packing paper. 

When all of this fire recovery is in the distant past and the smell of burnt house has faded, these little tangible memories of better times will remain. 

Things we hope are in those boxes:

Great grandpa's wallet

Grandpa's wallet and sheet music

Grandpa's belt and work hat

Our wedding photos

Our Lil Water Maiden lamp

We'll keep you posted!   

 

Cry If I Want To

You would cry to if it happened to you.

Today, we saw some of our things for the first time since the fire. It's been eleven months now. I had forgotten I owned some of that stuff.

It was incredibly emotional for me- seeing our stuff unpacked from massive crates, still covered in soot and ash, still smelling like house fire.

That is a distinct smell ya know...house fire. It's the heady aroma of burnt insulation and charred wiring.

Three of our many, many crates at the warehouse.

Some of our belongings, those that the insurance company or fire restoration experts thought could be salvaged, were taken to a warehouse to be cleaned. That was the week of September 21, 2011. In reality, what was taken has been sitting in a warehouse, packed into boxes and crates, waiting on us to move home again. A few weeks before we move, they will clean our things and treat them with ozone to help remove the odor. What was not taken to the warehouse or to another warehouse that is cleaning our fabric items, was thrown into dumpsters. Six dumpsters.

Where is our 'stuff'? It's a toss up. Might be in this warehouse. Might be in that one. Might be in the dump. Who knows.

In the days following our fire, we waded through our home in disposable uniforms, latex gloves, and respirator masks collecting the things we didn't want to part with. We took our photos, searched for the boy's class ring, a favorite teddy bear, and Great-Grandpa's wallet. After that, I think we kind of walked away and let it all go. We had to. We had to grieve and let go. 

So, today...there it was again. Our stuff. And it was all fresh again. The smell, the destruction, the loss. 

Our furniture, removed from the crates. 

It will all just clean right up! Right?

Um...no. 

Chair.

Check out the spindles in one of our chairs. Our house was super heated. Everything baked. Wood and extreme heat do not mix. Unless you're using the wood to fuel the fire. Then you're in good shape. 

I really don't want that chair back, even if you could clean the soot and remove the odor.

This was exactly what we expected to see. We have seen our entire home disassembled and we've seen what shape the framework was in after all that heat. And yet, it was so painful. 

Our pine armoire (and our cute little scarecrow!) before the fire.

This was our big, rustic pine cabinet before the fire.

And this, is that same cabinet now-

Post fire. 

The wood is cracked and split like dry kindling.

Inside the cabinet. 

Yuck.

Cabinet doors...with...sap?

Sigh. 

We'll be having a long talk with the insurance company.   We had replacement cost in our policy. Not clean-and-send-back-damaged cost.

Ah well. Tomorrow is a new day. 

Let's look on the bright side. New furniture!

  

   

So Not Ok

H A V E    M E R C Y !

See-through house. (Sorry, P...you were just in the shot)

It has been 8 months since we've been home. Yes, 8. It's been 8 months since I got the phone call that would send me speeding home, all adrenaline and nerves. It's been 8 months since we stood huddled together in our driveway, firetruck lights illuminating our yard in eerie red and blue. It's been 8 months since our friends, neighbors, and family members gathered around us and held us tight and prayed for us and offered words of comfort.

They told us that we were ok. Heck, we told ourselves we were ok. As I settled down into a  hotel bed at 8:00 am the next morning, a separate bed from my husband, my children split up into various rooms far down the hall and my dogs, still sick from smoke inhalation and heat exhaustion, with extended family, I understood something deep in my soul. I was not, ok. True, I had not admitted it to myself yet. But I knew it. I kept up a mantra to my children- "we are ok, we are all ok, we are going to get through this." But, deep in my soul, I knew. We were not ok. 

I promised to keep it real here, and this is the real. I'm not ok. I am traumatized. The terror in my daughter's voice when she called to say "come home now Mom! The house is burning!" will be forever etched into my memory. Forever. The fear I felt trying to drive home to my family, not knowing what I would find when I arrived, is forever embedded in my soul. The complete emptiness and helplessness I felt laying down in a hotel with nothing but what I had with me when I had left home to go to work that evening...it has taken a toll on me. I am exhausted still. I have realized that I have little memory of things going on in my life in early September. I cannot remember what classes I was attending at college. I can hardly remember some of the details of my own home. 

I am not ok. I am alive. I am grateful. I am putting one foot in front of the other. I smile. I laugh. We all do. But we are not ok. 

I have hope. I hope, sincerely, that when we move home...when we can no longer see through the walls of our home...that we will feel ok. But, I don't know. Perhaps we are forever changed. We'll see. 

I do know that today,  I personally, Limitless Lisa, have just about reached my limit. I want to go home. 

But, this...is not a home.

Not a welcoming entry. 

And this...is not a window.

Not a good view. 

And this...is not a bay window.

Also not a good view.

And this...is not my bedroom.

Not how I pictured my bedroom. 

Not yet. I know it will be soon. Hopefully before the end of July, because that is when the insurance company will stop paying our rent for our temporary home.

Excuse me now while I try to find my 'ok'. I know I've got it here somewhere. Maybe the fire restoration company took it and tried to clean it.  

  

Someday, We'll Look Back and Laugh

Someday, I know we’ll look back on this year of our life and laugh. The pain will fade and the trauma will become a distant memory. We’ll tell stories about the fire and the rebuilding of our home and we’ll laugh. “Remember when” we’ll say. "Remember when Dad was yelling at the crew because they moved the electrical conduit and buried it in several feet of dirt right before the concrete mixer arrived.” Oh, the stories we’ll tell. “Remember that one time when Dad cut through the cables with the trench digger and cut off phone and cable service to 25 of our neighbors.”

What?!

Yeah. That happened.

Trench for electric lines.

It wasn’t his fault, really. He did call 1-800-DIG-RITE and several utility companies did mark the utility lines. But, somewhere along the line (puns totally intended) the lines got crossed and well…

Repairman in the hole.

This guy wasn’t too happy about it. So…I took a photo of the side he really wanted to show me. ‘Cause that’s how I roll when you’re grumpity with me. Hmph. They had to dig a MUCH larger hole (pit) in our yard and spend 2 (yes, 2) days repairing the lines. Sorry, Neighbors.

At any rate, the new electrical lines were installed, passed inspection, were buried, and…

Fresh cement.

The cement was poured!

Before the wet cement went down, we buried a time capsule. We thought it might be fun for the next poor souls who have to dig up that yard to find something interesting. We included new coins, a 2011 Christmas Coca-Cola bottle, an old iTunes card, some local restaurant menus, a copy of the high school newsletter, a music magazine (courtesy of the 15 year old), a page from the blog (of course), and a letter to the future time capsule finders among other things.  We placed it all in a PVC pipe and sealed the ends so whoever digs it up will know it is something really cool, or they'll think it's an old pipe bomb. Either way, it should make for an interesting discovery. 

The Big Guy marked our name and the date in the wet cement and that was that. The framing and plumbing continue and now they are tearing off bits of sheeting on the outside of the house. They are still finding blackened, smoke-filled pieces of insulation as they go. If you've never smelled burnt insulation, let me assure you it is atrocious. If you have smelled it, you know it is a smell you will never forget. We are trying to make sure that every last trace of that stench leaves our home. 

I guess that is excitement enough for one week. We'll see what this week brings. 

The little girls checking out the new pavement. 

Look at Rough Stuff holding one of our little blog cards. "Will this be on the blog, Mom?" Yes, kiddo. I think it will. (I should tell them that with every photo I take! They were actually cooperative!)

    

Move That Oil!

I've been spending a lot of time turning pages in kitchen remodeling magazines lately. By a lot, I mean that I look at them every free moment I have. You know, while I'm on my throne. The throne is the only place a woman with five children, a job, and a whole house remodeling project can possibly sit uninterrupted long enough to look at a magazine. I've pretty much picked out our kitchen cabinets and counter tops, but I'm still searching. I'm waiting for a tile pattern to speak to me. Occasionally, I see a tile pattern that says "meh, could do" but I have yet to find one that says "oh yeah, you know you want me."

Fortunately, there are no slow cookers taking up precious counter top space in the photos of kitchen remodels, so I am not reminded in that way of our disaster. I suppose the clunky slow cooker is not sleek enough to feature in a picture perfect kitchen. What I do see, over and over again, in nearly every single photo in every single kitchen magazine I take to the throne, is oil. The classic bottle of oil, be it flavored, herb-infused, or plain old olive, is standing in a place of honor...right next to...the stove.

That's right. A bottle of accelerant right next to the primary heat source. It makes me INSANE.

Public Service Announcement: DO NOT place accelerants near a heat source in your home! Don't do it people! Putting your olive oil next to your cook top is like placing a can of gasoline next to a campfire. Don't do it.

Confession: I did it.

Don't we all? Who even thinks about it? To be honest, I had a lot of accelerants. There was a bottle of olive oil on the counter right next to the stove which is where the stupid crock was plugged in. When the cord to the crock shorted and began to spark and flame, it didn't take long I'm sure to reach the olive oil. No need to stop there though. Just a foot away there was also shortening, vegetable oil, sugar, and lighters. Yep, lighters. A whole little crock of them. Those big, long lighters you would use for a grill or fireplace. Probably a half dozen of them, right on top of the cabinet out of reach of little fingers.

So, a small spark led to a little flame, reached the bottle of oil, and we had an inferno.  

Kitchen cabinet nest to stove

Repeat after me folks- I will NEVER, ever place an accelerant near a heat source. No matter how amazing the photos in all of the remodeling magazines look with their trendy bottles tied with raffia, or how convenient it may be to actually have the oil within reach.

I, personally, will now store my oil, and lighters, on the other side of the kitchen for the rest of my life. If I visit your kitchen, I will move your oil to the other side of the kitchen. I might unplug your slow cooker too. 

Now, don't get me wrong. the oil did not cause the fire. The fire was happening because of a bad cord on the crock. The oil just pushed the whole thing over the top. The oil took what might have been a slow, smoldering fire, and turned it into a rapid, intense, very hot fire. It is perhaps the difference in a kitchen remodel as opposed to an eight-month-stay-in-a-rental-while-we-rebuild-the-whole-house remodel.   

Oh Dear, Oh Dear, Oh Dear

The nicest thing about the rain is that it stops, eventually. ~Eeyore

There is some serious progress happening at my house!

New kitchen ceiling.

That, is my new kitchen ceiling! No more charred wood. Just for comparison, here is what it looked like post-crock:

Kitchen ceiling post-crock, from the dining room.

Kitchen wall and ceiling, above stove.

Quite an improvement, yes?

New kitchen ceiling, from kitchen into dining room.

Huge improvement. That's what I call progress. Hey, wait...

Look at that pic again.

Is that...natural light coming through the dining room ceiling? Why yes. Yes it is. 

Above the kitchen.

Holy moly! There's a hole in my house, dear Liza, dear Liza. There's a hole in my house. Dear Liza, a HOLE.

Um...I don't feel so good about that. 

Image from KMBC.com

It looks clear on the radar...but out the window, not so much.

According to our local KMBC "meteorologist Lisa Teachman has a look at what could be a rumbly Thursday."

That's just freakin' fabulous.

It's going to rain in my house.

 

Idiosyncrasies of an Inventory

You know those insurance commercials where they show everything all topsy turvy and then the insurance agent comes along and everything is made right again?

Yeah. TV magic. They leave a few things out.

We had something known as Replacement Cost on our policy. In my mind that meant, something burnt/overheated/melted and the insurance company would pay to replace it. Well...not exactly. In reality, the insurance rep itemized every single item in our house after the fire restoration companies took what they could attempt to clean. Every single item. Holy moly. Then, she made up a spread sheet and we had to add in a value for every single item. Every single item. Criminy. Then she returned the inventory with a check. Gasp! The check included the depreciated value for the item. Sigh.

Now, we shop for the item. We locate the line item number and record it on the sales receipt. We send the receipts in to the insurance company. They send back the replacement cost up to the limit or ACV (actual cost value) that they placed on each item. Oh fuuuuudge.

Problems, much? Yes.

First of all, we are a family of 7. There was a LOT of stuff in our house even after the fire restoration companies hauled away truckloads of our stuff. Second, a total stranger inventoried our stuff. She called our stuff names that are worthless to us.

Like this:

Handle for Ja-Ru. 

What in the name of toyland is a Handle for Ja-Ru?? We have no idea. It was worth $1.98. If we replaced it we would be paid $3.30 more. Anyone know where to buy a Handle for a Ja-Ru? Anyone know what a Ja-Ru is? And why we had one in our home?

So, this weekend I wanted to buy a toaster. Easy-peasy. Locate item on spreadsheet. Go buy item. Record line item number on receipt. Send off receipt and wait. Cripes. How many more items do we need to buy?

Toaster. Line 178 to be specific.

The inventory is the bane of my existence. If you have never had an inventory of your home completed by a total stranger, then you have never been properly humiliated. Trust me, there are things in your home you do not want to appear on an inventory. And your kids! For the love of all things sacred! Your kids do things you do not want to share with fire restoration company employees and insurance agents and demolition crews.

Case in point:

Top for a crutch.

Top for a crutch. I know. It seems innocent enough. The thing is, my teenage daughter, just days before the fire, had removed the tops from her crutches- you know, those gray, rubber, phallic-shaped things that go under your pits?- and drawn hair and other, um...accompanying features on them. She named them; Rick and Nick.  I'd given her a stern talking to between my own immature bursts of laughter, but since she had zebra-striped covers for them, I didn't make her throw them out. Who knew so many people would be traipsing through my house handling Nick and Rick?  

Sometimes, the inventory list, the bane of my existence, gives me a good giggle. 

EyeBROW curling things.

I can assure you, I have never in my life, curled my eyebrows. The very thought of it cracks me up. Yes, I'm sure she meant eyelash curler. Simple mistake. But, when I Ctrl+F and search for the line item number for my eyelash curler, it won't exist, because she called it an 'eyebrow curling thing'. So not helpful.

How can I get the full replacement cost for my eyelash curler if I can't locate it on the inventory? How? Whatever in the world will happen to us if we can't match up our replacement items with the inventory list?

We will get truly annoyed. That's what. Then we will momentarily forget how thankful we are that we had insurance and that nobody was hurt and that most of the animals made it out safe. For a brief period of time we will act pissy and say nasty things about the lady who did the inventory. Then, we'll pull up our big kid pants and march right back to the store. Because we've got a handle for a Ja-Ru to shop for. And eyebrow curlers. And a toaster.  

Stupid crock. 

Redefining Normal

You want a little peek in to my life? Are you sure? It's ugly in here.

So far this week:

• We lost the cable boxes and modem. Yep. The packing system went to hell in a handbasket. Actually, it probably went to hell in a plastic tote. The cable guy showed up 3 hours late to hook up our precious cable/phone/internet, and we had no equipment. It wasn't my fault, really. I packed it. It just never got loaded on the truck. So after ransacking every gray plastic tote in the house at least 3 times, we found the cable boxes at the other house, after the cable guy had left. Fail. Fortunately, the hubby managed to hook it up just fine and by midnight we were once again connected to the big, wide, world outside of our home again. 

• My hotspot device failed. The hotspot was the key piece of equipment that guaranteed that I could work through this whole moving adventure. Work=paycheck. The stupid thing refused to charge while plugged into my laptop, or anywhere else for that matter while I was using it, so every hour or less it just tossed me off the internet. Blast technology! I wanted to blast that thing through the window.

• The youngest kiddos got off of the new school bus crying because the bus driver cussed at them. The big guy walked them to the bus this morning and met the bus driver. He was super nice to the big guy. 

• The landlady's attorney called and informed us that we could not have a third party present at the final walk through of the rental property. By third party, I mean the party that originally did the walk through of the property. I have never actually met the landlady. I have been fully cooperative with this person up to this point, but you know what? No. I will not give on this one. I want a third party (one who has seen the property prior to our move in) to do the walk through with us. She can pull up her big girl pants or I can pull down mine. My cooperation must still be packed. Probably in a gray plastic tote. 

• The fire restoration company that attempted to clean our fabric items informed us that their fabric care expert did not find any evidence of lingering smoke, shrinkage, or general fabric damage. Really? Fabric care expert? Are they listed in the Yellow Pages? Where does one locate a fabric care expert? The house burned hot enough for the glue to melt in the plywood roof and the paneling upstairs to melt and drip off the wall, but our nylon/lycra/spandex/perma-press/polyester infused fabrics fared just fine? Um...I don't think so. Sure, the big guy always wore those 5XLT shirts like shrink wrap. My peachskin shirt always felt like a scratchy wool sweater. No. I don't think so. That tie-dye shirt? Yeah, that was solid blue before the fire. I'm unpacking my boxing gloves, people. We're fixin' to fight. 

What else? Hmmm...

•  The hot water tank was set to 'vacation'. That made for a pleasant first shower. 
• Now the hot water tank is set to 'scald your hiney'. Need to adjust that. While I still have skin on my hiney. 
• I have yet to locate my work notebook. Work notebook=time sheet. Time sheet=paycheck. Oh, curse you gray totes!
• We haven't found all of the phones yet. 
• There is still a lockbox hanging on our doorknob. It eats knuckles. Hopefully the leasing company will be out soon to remove it.     

I could go on and on. And you know what? It's only TUESDAY. 

I was feeling very low today and wondering to myself when our lives would get back to normal, and then it came over me, like a foul stench- this is our new normal. 

This is it. This is our life. This IS our normal. It's been 5 months and we still don't live 'at home'. We have a lot of new stuff, but it still doesn't feel like our stuff. And to be fair, much of it is not our stuff. Not our beds. Not our dishes. Not our towels. (I will NEVER buy white towels! I don't ever want to see white towels again.) Not our furniture. Not our home.   

We have to redefine our normal. 

I'll get to that next week. 

Right after I unpack 40 gray plastic totes and umpteen boxes. 

How'd That Work For Ya?

Our slow cooker, our stupid crock, had three temperatures:

Low

Medium

And…

Burn-the-Freakin’-House-Down

I know, I know…I’ve told this story before. But, there are days, and today is one of those days, when I take a good look at my life and all I can say is…really? For reals? Stupid crock.

My sweet husband tried to make us dinner. That’s all. He tried to cook a recipe that I got from a blog about Crock Pots. I know, right?! Total irony. Chicken, black beans, cream cheese, cheddar, and salsa all cooked nice and slow, flavors all blended to perfection. He wanted to make sure the whole herd had dinner when we got home. He takes care of us like that. He put all of the ingredients in the slow cooker and set the temperature to Burn-the-Freakin’-House-Down and left it to do it’s thang. 

We actually owned a slow cooker that had only high and low settings, but the big guy didn’t like that crock. He liked the older one that had multiple temperature settings. All I can really say to that is…

How’d that work for ya?

It’s funny, but it wasn’t the issue. The cord shorted out. It arced. It melted. I don’t know…it burned my house down. Or it burned my house up. What do you call it when the house is still standing, theoretically, but it pretty much burnt completely? Is that burnt down? Not really. Is it burnt up? Burnt out?

I’ll go with burnt out. ‘Cause that is how I feel. Burnt out. I am stressed beyond words. My daily conversations with my husband revolve around “did you talk to the contractor/lumber salesman/ roofer/ insurance agent/ structure claim rep/leasing agent/painter/fire restoration company?” They revolve around “what is the next step and what is the resolution?” And they usually end in grief. Because nothing is simple. “We sent off that bid/statement/contract/form/fax and we’re waiting on a call/e-mail/fax/answer.” We are always contacting and waiting.  

Our evenings revolve around buying stuff. I swear, everything we do requires buying something we used to own. Make Valentine’s cards? Buy a Cricut paper cutter, glue dots, scrapbooking paper, and a storage tote to keep the paper in.  Bake cupcakes? Buy a muffin pan, food coloring, decorating bags and tips. Go snow tubing? Buy snow tubes. Shopping is no longer fun. It is a never-ending chore.  

So I sit back, take a good look at this surreal adventure that is our life and say “all because of a slow cooker? All for chicken and black beans and rice? For reals?”

Here is the latest view of the house, from the kitchen, the scene of the fire:

View from the kitchen

This is the view, from the kitchen, through the family room, through the staircases, through 2 bathrooms, into our bedroom.

View from the kitchen through the upstairs

This is the view from the kitchen into the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom. This is where the fire started. Note the charred boards above where the stove was.

All that from a slow cooker with a bad cord. For chicken and black beans. For a quick trip to the store to buy rice. I've been looking at it for 5 months and it is still unbelievable.  

So, you know what? Kiss my arse, you stupid crock. Slow cooking? You and I are over. So over. That blog about slow cooker recipes? Over it.  Slow cooked mac ‘n’ cheese? Nope. Slow cooked apples with cinnamon red hots? Uh-uh. Chicken and black beans? Hells to the no.   

NO.

No.

Nooooo.  

Still Swimming

Tonight, at the grocery store, in the checkout line, a very crowded line to be precise, Tuna announced in her loudest, most cheery voice "Fish thinks you and Dad are getting a DIVORCE." Just in case she had not drawn enough attention, she added "because you've been really nice to us, you know, buying us stuff, and because you argue all the time."

I contemplated crawling under the checkout register behind me, but I knew my big arse wouldn't fit under there. I took a slow breath and stared at the white Chardonnay I had picked up for cooking penne pasta al fresco and considered taking up wine drinking. Finally, in an effort to save face I mumbled something about trying to replace the things they had lost in the fire, rewarding her for her hard work cleaning out the basement, and trying to rebuild a house.

I often think that our children are better for seeing us argue and then working things out. They are learning that marriage is tough. Marriage is work. It isn't always fun and happy. Right now, I'm not sure what they are learning, except that rebuilding a house is making us crazy. Of course we argue. We were launched headlong into a complete remodel. It's sort of sink or swim. Or as my mother would say,we're up Shit Creek without a paddle. We're going to swim to the other side, but not without splashing a little water and slinging a little mud.

And the rapids! Good heavens. It's not calm water on Shit Creek. That water is teeming with termite damage, crazy landlords, extra moves, storm clouds...it's nasty stuff. No wonder the kids are worried. We're still swimming though.

Fireplace, black from smoke damage

This last week, two different people informed the husband that our fireplace would never come clean and would need to be torn down and replaced. I immediately got angry. How can we rebuild the house if they keep tearing stuff down? How? We're working backward! I want to go home! I am an inch from screaming "I don't care!" Just leave it black and rebuild my house, right? Wrong. I know I would regret it later.

It just seems never ending. Our original plan per insurance, was to leave the three bedrooms on the main floor and the master bath intact. Last week, they tore them down. There was just no way to thoroughly remove all of the smoke-filled insulation and cold air ducts without removing the walls. Late in the week the contractor announced that the stairs were not built to current code and they are coming down too. Sigh.

And now the fireplace. Oh, and the roofer came and declared that the roof was de-laminating. It took too much heat so it goes too. The house will truly be down to framework now. All for trying to slow cook chicken and black beans with salsa and cream cheese. Blast! Stupid crock.

But wait...there's more!

Storm damage

Friday morning we had a nice, loud thunderstorm. The thunder set off car alarms and woke the kids up. They all played musical beds but I enjoyed sleeping to the sounds of thunder and rain. But when the husband arrived at the house to greet the work crew, he discovered pieces of vinyl siding flopping in the wind. 

'Cause, why the hell not? 

What's one more ripple on the creek? 

We're still swimming. 

Come on Shit Creek! 

Bring it!