Down Among the Sweltering Palms
Sam wanted me to use the title above; he says about one in ten people might know what it's a parody of. You may use the comment section to prove him wrong, if you like, or make his day, otherwise.* Definitely we've got sweltering palms down here, and we're pretty hot ourselves.
I'll tell you, what you do NOT want your contractor to say, should he be back in Pittsburgh fixing your upstairs floors, whilst you sit around in South Carolina under the aforementioned sweltering palms, what, anyway, I say, you do NOT want him to say, when he calls up, no, you do NOT want him to say it, is that he wishes he were dead, or better yet had never been born, or at least that he hadn't taken the job you left him with.
No, we did NOT want to hear that, and it caused us some distress, but apparently the contractor got over it, and the latest news is that he did indeed get the child's floor done (the 1840's resin was apparently plowing through the sandpaper like nobody's business), and even managed to take up the hall carpet, which had been put down by someone who owned way too many staples and adored his or her staple gun; and had also managed to sand down the linoleum under the said carpet, which had been stuck on with epoxy; and then had also managed to build a floor under the linoleum, which was apparently covering up plywood over air, in places, not really being a floor at all, you understand, just a sort of covered up heffallump trap; and then he'd managed to sand everything down, meanwhile going through ALL the sandpaper in Pittsburgh, so too bad for you if you wanted some; and my meditation room now exhibits its original flooring, which is oak on one side and pine on the other, with some sort of 1840's cement concoction in between.
I am mighty happy about this, as it happens, but then that's me.
So that's all fine now, and will be till we get home and find the bill, and maybe even till we walk upstairs and discover the eccentric floor, though as I say I expect to enjoy it. Sam thinks maybe he will too, but he's not sure.
Now, the other thing is, you do NOT want your word processing program to tell you, after it has obediently saved the file you were working on, which was very large and difficult and cost you a lot of sweat and tears and also your time actually enjoying the sweltering palms, which you might have done had you not been working, well, you do NOT want it to tell you that it doesn't recognize the file and it has no idea what you're talking about and it thinks you made that file up anyway, and don't you want to play solitaire instead.
No, you do NOT want to hear that.
Cost me some time, that did, though I finally found a program that would open the file that the new damn software had decided it didn't recognize, and though it took me an hour and a half to download it cause I'm on a modem, here under the sweltering palms, the program does indeed work.
Still trying to get my manuscript done before I get home and move into the lovely home with the eccentric upstairs floor.
It's all this shifting of programs, that's what it is. You go from log house to brick house, your floor looks funny. You shift from Word to Word Perfect, well, all that extra code is gonna eat up the sandpaper real quick.
***************
*Sam says I may give you a clue, which is, "oh, honey, wait for me."
I'll tell you, what you do NOT want your contractor to say, should he be back in Pittsburgh fixing your upstairs floors, whilst you sit around in South Carolina under the aforementioned sweltering palms, what, anyway, I say, you do NOT want him to say, when he calls up, no, you do NOT want him to say it, is that he wishes he were dead, or better yet had never been born, or at least that he hadn't taken the job you left him with.
No, we did NOT want to hear that, and it caused us some distress, but apparently the contractor got over it, and the latest news is that he did indeed get the child's floor done (the 1840's resin was apparently plowing through the sandpaper like nobody's business), and even managed to take up the hall carpet, which had been put down by someone who owned way too many staples and adored his or her staple gun; and had also managed to sand down the linoleum under the said carpet, which had been stuck on with epoxy; and then had also managed to build a floor under the linoleum, which was apparently covering up plywood over air, in places, not really being a floor at all, you understand, just a sort of covered up heffallump trap; and then he'd managed to sand everything down, meanwhile going through ALL the sandpaper in Pittsburgh, so too bad for you if you wanted some; and my meditation room now exhibits its original flooring, which is oak on one side and pine on the other, with some sort of 1840's cement concoction in between.
I am mighty happy about this, as it happens, but then that's me.
So that's all fine now, and will be till we get home and find the bill, and maybe even till we walk upstairs and discover the eccentric floor, though as I say I expect to enjoy it. Sam thinks maybe he will too, but he's not sure.
Now, the other thing is, you do NOT want your word processing program to tell you, after it has obediently saved the file you were working on, which was very large and difficult and cost you a lot of sweat and tears and also your time actually enjoying the sweltering palms, which you might have done had you not been working, well, you do NOT want it to tell you that it doesn't recognize the file and it has no idea what you're talking about and it thinks you made that file up anyway, and don't you want to play solitaire instead.
No, you do NOT want to hear that.
Cost me some time, that did, though I finally found a program that would open the file that the new damn software had decided it didn't recognize, and though it took me an hour and a half to download it cause I'm on a modem, here under the sweltering palms, the program does indeed work.
Still trying to get my manuscript done before I get home and move into the lovely home with the eccentric upstairs floor.
It's all this shifting of programs, that's what it is. You go from log house to brick house, your floor looks funny. You shift from Word to Word Perfect, well, all that extra code is gonna eat up the sandpaper real quick.
***************
*Sam says I may give you a clue, which is, "oh, honey, wait for me."
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