Postcards of Grief

Mourning is a process.

Comments on breast cancer by proxy, written by a woman coping with the loss of her mother.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Fucker called me “dear.”

I have paint in my hair. Primer, not paint, really, but the meaning is still the same.

The bathroom really does look nice.

The sink is in and caulked. The tub is in and caulked. As of midnight last night (this morning?) the walls are primed and ready for paint. We were working so late last night, rolling primer onto the walls and ceiling. It took half an hour or more just to tape around the window with its six upper panes and one lower pane. There was beer. There was swearing. There were cats sneaking in only to be shooed away and leave little kitty paint marks on the floor. I had to cut off a good portion of Muggle’s toe fur this morning so that he wouldn’t eat the primer.

And yet, the tile work isn’t done. It’s been two months since I first called them. Two months since the first estimate came through. The condescending jackass who did half of the work (and all of the crappy work) came yesterday morning, even though the owner told me he would be there himself. The condescending jackass who nearly refused to replace the broken tiles behind the faucet. He said he’d grout them back in, and when I sealed the covers on with plumber’s putty, it would be great.

No, thank you. Please replace the broken tile. It wasn’t cut properly, and I would rather not have broken tile behind the faucet.

“What are you hoping to accomplish here, dear?”

The work was excellent until he arrived. My attitude was excellent until he arrived. Now, I’m afraid I can’t recommend their services, and he can be certain that I will accomplish the anger inciting task of writing an explicitly detailed letter to the owner.


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