We decided to “remodel” this week.

I use that term loosely. Like emotionally supportive, not legally binding.

Both Kris and I do this for a living. I have a strong background in construction and renovations. Kris does exterior maintenance. Together, we’ve recently expanded our company from outside stuff to everything under the sun. Reconstruction. Turn-key. Ground-up. The whole HGTV buzzword salad.

So naturally, we thought:

Why not finally fix our own house?

Specifically, the non-bathroom bathroom.

Long story short: our house was built during the COVID materials apocalypse. Delays. Backorders. Shrugging inspectors. When the half bath didn’t meet code, we said, “Fine. Pull the toilet. Pull the sink. Tile it. Drywall it. Call it a closet.”

And since 2021, that’s exactly what it’s been.

Until Kris decided it needed to be a bathroom again.

The plan was simple. Two days. Pop in a vanity. Cut a small section of wall. Drop in a toilet. Bam. Bathroom.

Reader, we are now six days into the two-day project.

Why?

Because I had to have a black toilet.

Which has now been delayed so long it may legally qualify as folklore.

So I ordered a second black toilet from a different company. They guaranteed it would be here today.

It is currently still in Georgia.

The same city as the first toilet.

From ten days ago.

At this point I’m convinced Georgia is just hoarding toilets and laughing.

With no toilet in sight, we did what any sane people do:

everything else.

Midnight painting.

The girls suddenly owning tool sets and “fixing” things.

A quick paint trip turned into:

• Black walls in the theater

• Pink walls in the girls’ room

• All doors and trim painted black

• All outlets and switches swapped to black

And since we were already doing that, we decided:

• Let’s redo the theater floors

• Hyper-organize the garage with shelves and tubs

• Rip out the upstairs carpet and install LVT because kids are basically feral

• Maybe redo the deck too

At some point, waiting on a toilet turned into a full-scale identity crisis.

Oh and because apparently my body wanted in on the chaos, my nose rejected my piercing this week.

Not like “this is irritated.”

Like “we’re done, I’ve already packed, don’t contact me again.”

It swelled. It pulsed. It staged a full-blown inflammatory exit interview.

I swear I could feel my body saying, “Ma’am, we are already remodeling a house. We are not accepting new hardware.”

So instead of resting (or listening) I did what any rational woman in the middle of a renovation spiral does.

I went and pierced the other side.

Because when one nostril says no, obviously the answer is to immediately try again, like a toxic relationship where you change nothing except the location.

At this point I have:

• A bathroom without a toilet

• Paint under my nails

• Children operating tools

• WiFi hanging by a thread

• And a face that looks like it lost a knife fight with a mall kiosk

If my body could file a formal complaint, it would simply read:

“Please stop adding fixtures. We are at capacity.”

Meanwhile:

• Harper and Lynnlee are hammering and measuring everything they can reach

• The cat looks deeply unsafe

• Tyler wants Level Zero

• Kris is buying tools he does not know how to use

• My teenagers just want the WiFi fixed and are actively running a betting pool at school on how badly we’re going to mess this up

Not if.

To what extent.

All of this is happening while:

• Planning a surprise Sweet 16

• Christmas and Christmas Eve

• Kids with the flu

• Talking to my dad while he’s still fighting his fight

• Grieving my nanny

• Trying to win a neighborhood decorating contest

• Helping Thomas start a career (mostly by listening and pretending I’m calm)

• Coping with Justin graduating soon

• Homeschooling

• Racing a clock to get my books to agents

And here I am, lying in bed thinking:

Thin brick would look amazing behind our bed.

I I blame every bit of this on:

1. A bottle of wine that never arrived

2. Georgia toilets moving slower than molasses in winter

We started with a toilet.

We’re ending with… I don’t know. A documentary? A cautionary tale?

All I know is this:

If the toilet ever shows up, it’s going to feel wildly out of place in the life it created.