I don't mean to beat a dead horse or anything,
and I certainly don't mean to give you the moment to moment goings ons of the massive construction work over here,
but I hope you'll forgive me. 'Cause I'm going to beat the horse and give a moment to moment. I'm such a jerk.
Now, I don't know if work-induced delirium has set in, or if it's just all the MASSIVE details of this little project, but,
I think I've gone cuckoo for cocoa puffs. From figuring out the curvature of the sideboards,
to bull-nosing the little steps,
I just don't know man. All work and no play makes Mandi a dull boy. Or girl.
Wanna know how many cuts so far? I counted.
Fine I made that number up but I swear it's been a ton of cuts. A ton.
And the injuries? I don't know man-- it's like I'm as clumsy as Bella, or I'm sucking back on your grampa's cough syrup or something.
Drill slipped. Drilled my hand. Just take my word for it that it was awful pain. Like, "Oh _____!" (insert swear as I'm talking to my sister on the phone) "I'll have to call you back. . . "
I sounded like I was dying. Right then, I was. Imagine, if you will, a Phillips head-shaped gouge in my hand.
I believe it was about right after this step:
when I shot myself with the nail gun. Yep. You heard me.
Nail. Right through the ole birdy finger.
Kind of a crappy picture. But did I mention I had just shot myself with the nailgun?
The bead of blood's the entry wound. The exit wound was up near my finger nail. On a positive note, I get to show people the middle finger now. Excited about that.
For the record, the drill in the hand hurt 3.2 times (exactly) worse.
I'd show you the picture of my gouged calf, but I haven't really shaved my legs in a couple days, and I wouldn't do that to you, now would I?
But, as the Daddy-o says:
"You're not doing your job right unless you get an injury." Or something like that.
I'll consider it a job well done if I keep all my digits.