Life at my house is officially in total upheaval.  And like a lot of people, I detest disruption in my daily routine, the fabric of my life.  However, change is the inevitable development of these middle-aged years.

Just as many males will meander through the various temptations of the Mid-Life Crisis … convertibles, sky-diving, yoga, andro-gels, and women much too young to take them seriously;  many females find one significant outlet for their restless middle years …

Home Remodeling!

It’s an age-old phenomena.  Every husband, lover, or significant other will eventually experience the dread, the uncertainty of the day they step through the front door to find paint swatches scattered across the vestibule/bathroom/kitchen or hear the warning claxon of those immortal words, “Honey, I’ve been thinking …”

Yeah, right … Assuming it’s a married couple, my bet is this never happens.

No fun nor favorable experience ever grew from such innocent beginnings.

That’s not to say that the End Results are not good, uplifting, exciting, renewing …

But no one, who is not a contractor or do-it-themselves nut job, EVER enjoyed the in-between parts.  The preparation, the shopping, the displacement, the mess, the shopping, the selection process, the color wheel migraines, the shopping, the second thoughts, the changes to all the decisions you thought were already made, the re-shopping, and worst of all the construction disruption …

And that’s where I am stuck now … in the worst possible space in the house … my refuge, my quiet place, my comfort zone, my Fortress of Solitude …

Yes, they are tearing apart my master bath.  Bad enough the bedroom, but the bathroom too?!?

Now what am I going to do?

Apparently, it’s living as a Hobo!

Living out of boxes and cardboard “valets” … Nothing where it’s supposed to be.  Nothing where it can be found without crawling around on all fours and opening no less than three 20-gallon sized Rubbermaid containers.

Showering in the Commoners Bathroom (Ew … What is THAT?!?) and soon to be sleeping in a strange, cramped bed.

No man was meant to live like this!

And right about now, there’s this very attractive, extremely gifted housewife, sitting at her desktop Mac, reading this blog with a building whistle of steam leaking from her ears, muttering, “Oh stop being such a baby!  Why can’t you be excited?!? They’ll be done in two weeks!”

Mona Lisa’s iconic smile rumored to be the result of Color Wheel Dementia during rehab of her Camden, NJ row house.

Yeah, right … And I’m Mona Lisa.

It’s already been roughly three months of shopping and searching, searching and sampling, sampling and spending … and we haven’t even gotten to the Color Wheel of Mind Numbing Choices.

“Honey, do you like the Tawny Apricot Caramel (beige) or the Cinnamon Mud Brickle (reddish beige)?”

Of course, it will all look magnificent once it’s completed, as it always does.  She does have a gift for getting it right.

It’s just those intervening 18 weeks in Hobo Hell I dread.

Two weeks?!?  Yeah, right …