Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Monday, bloody Monday.

June 21

Actually, it started out as a fantastic day. The Big Cheese likes what we've done with Hell's Half Acre (HHA) so far, and seems duly impressed. (As she should be, we busted our asses on that place.) After grabbing some lunch, G. Monkey and I decided it'd be a good day for a field trip. (Mondays are supposed to be our days off anyway.) So, while we were out looking for lights and crown molding for HHA, we decided we needed ice cream. Mr. G. Monkey's birthday is Wednesday, so of course, we needed to find him a present, and somehow ended up at the glaze-your-own-pottery place. We found Mr. Monkey a few other goodies as well and called it a day.

Then came the bad news...

My parents came out to look at HHA tonight (oh, how lovely it is to be related to a contractor, and a woman with impeccable taste!) The front room passed muster, but there is a lot more work that we didn't take into consideration that Papa Sauce says will need to be done. *sigh* If we have any hopes of getting into the building before our lecture series, we're going to have to do one of the following:

1. Find brawnier interns (plural). Cute little lit majors aren't usually equipped to hang drywall.
2. Let the forces contained in the basement take over the entire house, sucking it into some sort of evil vortex. (Preferably on a Monday, when G. Monkey and I aren't in the building.)
3. Break down and hire some damned contractors so that G.
Monkey and I can try to wheedle donations out of the community. (and work on the journals, and try to sell ads and finalize the lecture series, and plan the exhibits, and get some publicity going)
4. Work around the clock, learning the finer points of carpentry, drywalling and city code as we go along trying not to breathe too deeply so the mold spores don't kill us, and drop dead from some sort of house fungus before our opening date.

I'm hoping for option three (although option one isn't bad either.)

Oh, and before I get further into this thing...

The Special Sauce Glossary.

(Eventually to be prominently put somewhere or other.)

G. Monkey- my cohort, and quite possibly possessor of the other half of my brain. She's the smart one, and is the one who lured me to work for...

The Fabulous Imploding Nonprofit Entity (FINE) The ittybitty organization I work for. If I told you what it was, I'd have to maim you, or not. Perhaps I'm just hiding my true identity from...

The Big Boss- the other person who works for (and runs) the FINE. Swell person, but the linoleum curled a long time ago, if you get my drift. The one who decided the FINE was moving to...

Hell's Half Acre- the historic building G. Monkey and I are trying desperately to remodel. The people who turned it into a law firm did some of the worst half-assed construction I've seen in a while (They stopped short of using duct tape and brown paper bags to patch the holes). Their descendants should be cursed with short thumbs and rashes that are impolite to scratch in public. Also: Has mysterious blood-like spots in several places, probably lethal mold/lead paint and one super-creepy basement. For the record, I shamelessly stole the name "Hell's Half Acre" from a column the incomprable Paul T. Riddell used to do. With all the current events, it just fits.

More definitions as I see fit. Stupid Stupid house.

Off to work on the Ground Chuck Sweater.


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