Bottomless

On Friday I rode bike to school for what I expect will be the last time before my commute is cut from 13.2 to seven miles by our move next weekend. I’m sure that the new ride will go much faster, except for the dirt road section.

On Saturday, I–not by myself, mind you–completed everything and more than I’d hoped for the day, including putting in the new beams that will replace a supporting wall.

The offending wall between the current dining and living rooms:

Another wall, this one along the upstairs corridor and to be replaced with a banister:

After 12:30 at night, long after my sister served up a gourmet pizza supper, I stumbled in our apartment door, filthy with drywall remnants, exhausted from swinging a hammer, and excited that our new house is, well, becoming.

I was glad to have reserved today for not much besides church.

“I feel like I’m a bottomless pit,” I told M this evening while we ate the two pounds of boneless, skinless chicken breasts that I’d fried in olive oil, corn flour, and salt and pepper, and served with buttered toast and boiled, chopped broccoli. “At supper last night I was full, but I felt like I could have eaten even more pizza, as in 20 minutes’ more.”

I wiped up the stove’s grease spatters and we trekked upstairs to our landlord’s birthday party, where I had two big slices of ice cream cake, no eye batting required.

I guess I’m just getting ready to jump back into that other bottomless pit: house projects.