So as most of you know, our house is under construction. Well, it's being remodeled. It's a 1909 Craftsman, and while we love it, it was lacking in a few necessities. Like closets. So we decided to have Tom, our contractor, build on a mud-room addition. Along with that, our back deck was torn off and a new one built in it's place. Now, I adore Tom. He's sweet, he's good at what he does, and he's the father of TWELVE. That alone earns him some sort of award. Anyway, Tom's not the most....uh....organized builder. For example, he tore apart our porch and then, before finishing that project, moved on to the mud-room. Well, we park in the back of the house and our only access from the cars to the house is via the porch. Which no longer had stairs. For almost TWO MONTHS. Now, I don't feel like I can complain much, because, well, I'm not paying for any of this. However, not having steps back there was a safety hazard, and on more than one occasion I almost bit it while carrying groceries and trying to navigate all the lumber, tools, extension cords and lack of stairs. I had been grumbling for a week or so, trying to get David to push Tom to finish the stairs, when one day last week I was in the kitchen on the phone with David when I realized our dog, Moby, was outside the fence. In my rush to get Moby back in the yard before he took off after some squirrel or something, I raced out the back door and TOTALLY WIPED OUT as I stepped off the porch. Right in front of Tom and his two sweet, innocent, very religious teenage boys my legs flew out from under me, my skirt flew up around my waist and my Granny Panties were exposed for all the world to see. In addition to my extreme humiliation, it hurt like hell: big scape on my lower back, bruised butt and twisted ankle. Yes, David heard the entire "crash" over the cell phone.
The good new is: we now have steps.