The never-ending saga of our unfinished house goes on and on (insert Celine Dion’s crescendo singing voice here), as we buckle down for yet another week of many at this odd “long term stay” motel in Albuquerque (hey, it’s close to Jamie’s school). This time the offenders aren’t New Mexico building folks, but rather, an inordinately ill-managed company of stair makers in Pennsylvania who, despite employing engineers and CAD operators, can’t seem to get the thing to scale. My husband has sent them better drawings than the ones they send us.
We can’t go with a traditional staircase because the second floor of our house is a loft. We’re installing a spiral staircase, which is a completely different animal, because a regular stair case would hog up far too much room in our beautifully tiled living room.
It’ll come as no surprise to most of my friends that I prefer the western U.S. and have fairly well retired permanently from living on the east coast again, except to visit. The last time I was in Pennsylvania was to work as a massage therapist at the “Tour de Toona” cycling race. It was a singularly miserable experience, and apart from cruising through the miles that separate the east from the west, I have not been back to that fair state since. I think that’s a good start. No offense, Pennsylvania! (Well, maybe a little…)