…funk for the old soul…

The Door of My Discontent

Posted by crowbiz on May 28, 2009

It’s over now, but I can’t shake it.  In a fit of home reno, we hired someone to refinish all the floors on the first floor of our house.  The upset began about two weeks ago with short notice that Floor Man would be coming, so we’d better clear the decks.  It’s like moving out, but with nowhere to go, so for those who know us, imagine all our first floor “possessions” jammed upstairs, in the kitchen and assorted other spots around our already overaccessorized home.  For those who don’t know our house, suffice to say, there’s a lot of crap piled up with a lot of other crap, all over, under and about.  The 3/4 life size St. Anthony statue got a couple rides on a dolly, which is the most excitement he’s seen in centuries.  We can open the refrigerator door about six inches, which means that watermelon in there is spitefully doing a swan song, laughing every time we look in and re-lament that we can’t reach or remove it.

I can’t even mention the dust without breaking down in a most unattractive way, so I’d better be brief.

Our hero the Floor Man had to remove only one door, a big, solid one, when tackling the last area – the dining room and foyer.  He propped it in the kitchen, and after applying the floor finish, curiously repositioned it to block access from the kitchen to the dining room, as we have kids who don’t listen, and a dog who does (but with a smaller receptive vocabulary).  It was leaning upright against an open swing door, eerily disembodied.

Not right

Not right



It put me over the edge.

You wouldn’t think there was anything particularly troubling about it, but after a week of noise, dust (I have to bite my lower lip), moving, removing, the stench of polyurethane, power fans at night, and all five of us being confined to a few rooms, the door absolutely did me in.

Look at it and you can immediately appreciate that it signifies wrongness.  It’s like something straight out of a bad dream:  “Hey, there’s a door, let’s see… but it’s not really connected to anything…is it?  I want to go through it, but I can’t, yet I can see beyond it.”  (flickers of panic begin)  “Why?  Wha… is this MY house?  That looks like my dining room…can’t get there… floating door….aaaahhh!”  This is where I start breathing as if I’d just run the Kentucky Derby and usually thrash a few times until I wake Mr Crow with a flailing arm.  Atmospheric music consists of something Kurt Weill-esque on an untuned harmonium.  There is unattributable laughter, fading in and out, loud and quiet, like when a kid plays with the volume knob.


Yes, that's a garden hose in the kitchen.  Life's like that these days.

Yes, that's a garden hose in the kitchen. Life's like that these days.

I’m sweating just writing about it.  Well, the floors are finished and look fabulous.  We’re not rushing to move anything back, not because we like consuming foods and beverages less than six inches wide, but because the floors are so smooth, pretty and silky that we’d rather just stare or roll around on them.


What made the floating door worse than all the other typical reno hassles is not clear.  It’s back now, but I’m not.

Make it go away

Make it go away


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