Yesterday, I put the word porn in my title and though no one commented on the blog, it had more hits than just about any blog I've ever written. It wasn't a great blog--it was a joke blog, based on some random findings at my new home.
But porn was the word, and I'm sure I disappointed just about everyone who clicked on.
What? No breasts? you all thought. No genitals?
So I apologize for not providing either, and I'm sure that had I gone about describing those actual things (the actual parts that do inhabit the room), you might have shuddered and clicked away.
But writing about what may or may not have happened in my rather and strangely large master bedroom in years past was better than writing about what has consumed my entire life this past week: remodeling and moving. Yes, the two "ing" words. Yesterday as I began my porn blog, the contractors arrived. Showing up about 7 and working straight until 7 pm. We now have running water, faucets, dishwasher, disposal, and trim in the kitchen, and I can smell that barn, the house almost done.
I think my antipathy toward remodeling stems from the fact that my father was remodeling my childhood home until, seriously, days before he died. Even as he struggled with cancer, I would find him downstairs with a hammer in his hands, trying to finish up the new bedroom. The problem for him and us was that he would begin a project only to run out of money, so he would move to something he could do on a shoestring, leaving some kind of hole in a wall or the house half shingled. There was evidence of things not done everywhere, evidence that this was a home-owner's project, though at times, he did hire out. All my life, there was the sound of saws, the grind of concrete being mixed (that scrape scrape sound still in my ear). There was plaster dust and paint fumes. Turpentine in the rusted can. The redwood smell of fresh shakes for the exterior. The thump thump of him walking on the roof. The pound pound of him down in the basement with a sledgehammer.
This was the sound track of my growing up, and though I was profoundly upset when he died, I didn't miss the noise, the smells. And last week, as I sat in my room and the poisonous fumes from the glue that the counter guy used wafted in my nose, making me slightly woozy, I realized that I still don't miss it.
However, and, it's almost done. There's the barn, just a mile away. I'm running toward it like crazy. I stop, reporting back about ridiculous things like a porn production ring in my house, and then start up again, heading toward the remodeled home.
Causes Jessica Inclán Supports
Women for Women International Goodwill Industries Lindsey Wildlife Museum Freecycle.org