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Now its been two months and I’m pretty much disgusted. I’m beginning to whine and feel sorry for myself. Gertie and I have been studiously performing our rituals, and I call or email the various contractors regularly, but to no avail. The guy who’s putting in the septic seems to be stalling, since he said he’d be up as soon as I got the septic permit, but I don’t see him, while I do see my septic permit right there on the desk, glaring at me. Well, I guess he’s got a pretty good excuse: a brain tumor. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he was faking it. That’s how self-centered and bitter I am. But, really, don’t you think he could have waited a few weeks to check into those pesky headaches? Extra Strength Tylenol. That’s the ticket.

Like a wounded animal, my instinct is to just hide away until the gods smile on me or Mercury moves into or out of retrograde, whichever is called for, but pesky  neighbors put a cosh on that pretty much daily. “How’s the house coming?” is a frequent query, which, I’m pretty sure, is more often than not said sarcastically, since everyone can see the big empty hole, the lack of a contractor parade, and the rapid expiration of building season. And if one more person says “oh, you’ll never get it done by September now” I will find it exceptionally onerous refraining from bashing that person on the head with a brick.

The only remaining, rapidly fraying, scrawny shards of hope to which I cling desperately are that 1)Roger said he’d be done haying by the 20th (yesterday), 2) the whole Bennet clan is planning to assist in next Wednesday’s wish-granting spell, and having a Jesuit brother and a nun along can not possibly hurt (unless they simply can not stop with the giggling), and 3) well, that’s it.


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