Stompy. I was SOOOOOO stompy. Throwing blankets and sheets down to be washed. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. David and Rissa exchanging "What the hell is happening?" looks below in the kitchen.
The panic had beset me while still in bed. I'd looked up at the ceiling with the skim coat of drywall compound taunting me - just waiting to cover the entire room with its fallout of dust. I shot a terrified look over to the closet wall. Plastic running the entire length of the wall reassured me - the clothes might be safe.
I then glanced at the carpet. Oh God. Carpet and drywall dust - we were doomed. The taper/mudder was coming back that day - there would be sanding - I had to find more floor coverings. I had one rotten sheet that covered 10 square feet. I had to find more plastic. Where was more plastic?!? We didn't have enough plastic to cover the entire floor!!
My head shot side to side in panic before I spotted, in the corner, a bunched up pile of plastic. Okay... Okay... this might work. If I could just get to the corner... but I couldn't, because our under-the-bed containers (that had been moved when we shoved the bed to the centre of the room), were in my way. And a box full of completely superfluous shit was in my way. And there were clothes on the chair just sitting there. And what about our bedding?!?
That's when, still naked, I'd grabbed all the bedding off the bed and threw it down the stairs. I ran back to our room and grabbed the plastic sheeting that we'd pulled off to be able to sleep in the bed overnight and laid it over top of the now-bare mattress. I grabbed the first under-the-bed container, defying the strain in my bad shoulder and hefted it towards the stairs.
"DAVID!! David I need you!!"
(Now I'd morphed into Inigo Montoya.)
David appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His eyebrows raised at my nakedness and apoplectic state, but he said not a word. He met me half way up the stairs, stepping around the previously thrown laundry and took the container from me. I ran back up the stairs to grab the 2nd container, which I carried downstairs myself.
More looks passed between David and Rissa. I knew I was behaving irrationally. I knew that. Could I stop it? No.
I moved the superfluous shit box. I grabbed the plastic sheeting. Scissors! I needed scissors!! Where were the fucking scissors?!? I was giving myself whiplash trying to locate them in the room. I launched myself across the bed when I spotted the errant tool on the dresser. Armed now, I cut the sheeting in two pieces - one could go at the head of the bed and then other at the foot. What about beside the bed?!? The one side had been covered by the stupid rotten sheet - but there was still the other side!! We didn't have any more plastic. Old sheets! Where were our old sheets? I had no fucking clue - probably hidden in the eaves of the now-sealed wall of closet.
I raced to Rissa's room. I was now naked, running with scissors... I opened Rissa's blanket box.. no sheets. But there was an old plaid polar fleece blanket. "HAH!" I ran with it back to my room and used the scissors to cleave it in half. If I put them end-to-end that might just do! Yes, that'd do. The floor was mostly covered. The drywall dust wouldn't hit the carpet, but if someone - say a taper/mudder of near gigantic proportions was moving around on these haphazard pieces of floor covering... TAPE!! I needed tape! Painters' Tape, I found out, does not stick to plastic. DUCT TAPE! I needed duct tape. By the time I was done, there was a patchwork quilt of pastic sheeting, a rotten sheet, cut up blankets and duct tape covering the majority of floor that was within drop distance of drywall dust. Then, then I took a breath... and apologized to my family.
p.s. Turns out? According to our taper/mudder... plastic sheeting? Not the best bet when you then might want to walk on the area. Better idea? Floor underlayment paper. Thankfully, he had to take another day for the mudding to really dry, so we had time to visit the home building centre and do this after work yesterday...
p.p.s.
Peri-menopause and home renovations don't mix.
Funny!
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