Yesterday, a few gal pals and I went to get our (ahem) bazooms lifted. So this will not be a blog entry about the house. In fact, if you are squeamish about talk of girly parts or undergarments or cup sizes, you might want to skip this blog entry entirely. (I'm looking at you, Dad.)
But if you want to know how a simple undergarment has CHANGED MY LIFE, then by all means, read on.
So, Martin and crew actually whipped the sunroom infrastructure into shape over three and a half days.
There was lots of concrete involved. Lots. If I had needed to bury a body where it would never be found, I would have been totally set. If. I said, "IF." No bodies were buried in the accomplishment of this project.
...I was writing this while crouched in the loft of Aaron's parents guest room and trying not to fall apart from excitement and fear.
We should have cracked open the champagne or something, but I was glued to CNN and MSNBC all night in our PRETTY NICE (still unfinished) LIVING ROOM.
Which, five years ago this week, looked like this:
I don't know what the title of this post means exactly, but it makes me think of the bodice-ripper Harlequin romance novels that my mom used to beg me to bring her from the library when I was in junior high.
Anyway.
We were conducting a search for someone to help us with The Sunroom Problem. Someone who could assess structural issues and load problems and footings and piers and things like that. Someone who would cause minimum disturbance to the new plaster coating on the walls above The Problem. And someone built like a hobbit or a largish Keebler-type elf because the space under the sunroom is very, very limited.
 
Cabinet Refacing:
Face Your Kitchen | Your Guide to Kitchen Cabinet Refacing
 
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