I'm having the ceiling in my office ripped out. It's a perfectly good ceiling.
It's mostly because the floor overhead must be reinforced. But it's also to get a ceiling fan and some lights. (the office is notoriously dim, rather like its occupant, who is currently on cold medicine)and it's friggin hot in summertime with my beautiful sunny west view.
This is a bit...disruptive, if you can imagine. It's the ceiling. Drywall dust, old and new. Paint. Workmen. In my office!
Oh. And I need to buy a ceiling fan.
The contents of my closet spent the summer in my guest room while my bath and closet were redone. I shared my kids' bath. I could deal. I actually dealt pretty well. (hell, only one bathroom to clean)
I was calm. Polite. Easygoing. All friggin summer.
I warned my contractor that if he thought I was crabby then, he didn't know what crabby was until he saw me a week after not only having workmen traipse through the house but not getting to be in my office. It's my fucking sanctuary, man. I'm a writer. I need my alone time.
And I have to take everything out. I'll be doing that at the last possible moment. Cuz I'm in fuckin denial.
I sense coffee houses in my immediate future. Sex scenes at Starbucks, indeed.