Cheating Death: One Home Improvement at a Time

It’s only taken four months but I’ve finally convinced my building’s management company to replace the window frames in my apartment. Not all of them, I’m not greedy, but the three opium den-looking water damaged, peeling paint messes that make my livingroom look like the set of a Chernobyl movie.

Unlike the floor installation which relegated me to one small hidey hole, I can safely spend the day in my office fiddling around on the Internets while portions of my home are torn apart.

I can’t make sense of the process, mainly because I don’t know how to say “wood” or “glass” in Spanish, but one dude has been hacking away at the sills for hours. We’ve communicated in broken Spanish on my part and broken English on his all day. His thin mustache that tells me he’s played a villain in a Spanish novella in his youth and his gold front tooth that indicates he’s handy with a hacksaw. He inquired of my marital status and followed it up with my mother-in-law’s favorite question, “¿Por qué usted no tiene un bebé?” Por qué? Because this apartment is too small for a walking financial suck and I’m too young to have a baby. Ask again when I’m 40. He replied in English, “I maybe have two or three babies from the women.” Oh. Okay, then.

Progress chugged along just fine, rotten slabs of wood liberated from the structure and measurement noted abound… until he invited two friends over. They arrived with weapons disguised as saws and tools to “help” brandishing their cheap Craftsman tools menacingly. Soon all three worked diligently to cover my entire livingroom in plastic. Shit. They’re smarter than the hardwood floor installers. They know the unmistakable scent of death would rise from the floor boards, so they plan to kill me in a nice tidy fashion. I know what this is about!  I’ve seen Dexter!

My fella conveniently had to “work” today. I guess all that work is paying off… paying off enough to afford a complicated plot to “take care” of your wife! That bastard. I should have seen it coming.

They’re all giving me that warm friendly smile that says, “Don’t worry, we’ll make this quick and we won’t even stain your rug!” The soothing sounds of their romance language doesn’t fool me, I know they’re drawing straws to win the chance to crack my neck. I guess this is goodbye, Reader… until my bathroom gets remodeled.