Tales from the Floor

Goddammit! I hate being inanimate. Ok, here’s the situation this month. The “owners” have decided to “remodel.” Great. I get all excited, telling EVERYONE about how I’m going to get at LEAST refinished, possibly even resurfaced and grouted.

The next thing I know, I’m covered in .9 mil plastic and there’s a troop of goons grinding holes in the plastic, and gouges in me, with plaster-laden Sears-Roebuck steel-tip work boots. And you think office workers have strange underwear habits, spend some time looking up the loose shorts of a few contractors some time, if you can keep the scrotum sweat out of you eyes..

Next, through each of the voids in the plastic comes streams of ammonia reeking paint in various shades from urine to Midori puke. Nice. Ok, I’m thinking, calm. Peace and patience. They’re only doing the walls first so they don’t mess you up after you’re refinished. Ah, find the shiny place, be smooth. Your time will come…

Aaahrgh. The rubber foot on that ladder is MISSING. Try picking it up, ass. I’m going to need a LOT of Olde English when you get to me. Sure, finish the crown molding first. That’s pretty important to the work environment.

So what happens next? In rapid succession, the plastic is ripped up, a show is made of scraping up the paint off of me with KNIVES, ragged steel-legged furniture is dragged back in, appliances are reattached to their outlets and work return to normal.

So, here I am, gouged, scraped, painted and pissed. At least they used big nails to hang the pictures.