Thread by @UrsulaV

Oh glorious day! My most beloved contractor, the gentleman who built Shep’s yurt platform, has agreed to do the foundation work on Lizardhaus!

It has been A NIGHTMARE.

The original contractor, found via the realtor, agreed back in July. He would start in August.

August came and went. In mid-September, he said he’d send a guy out to meet me.

I met the hired guy. He had a Punisher skull on his truck. Whatever. He looked in the crawlspace, shrugged, said yeah, no problem, he’d start soon.

October came and he had not started, and the contractor stopped returning my texts.

Sometime in mid-October, he told me he was sorry, he’d had a family emergency. I understood! These things happen! Next week, he said.

November came along, to silence.

In early December, in despair, I contacts the realtor and asked if they had a different number for him or could contact him or something. They called him. He finally texted me.

Punisher guy had had a claustrophobic panic attack and had to go to the hospital.

I was very sorry to hear this, but also that had been two months earlier?

Contractor said he’d do the job himself, rather than sending Punisher guy. On the weekends. Sure.

A week into January, I had a bit of a meltdown and Kevin went into YOU HAVE UPSET MY WIFE mode and began calling him.

A week of daily calls and no returns. No replies to texts. The man had ceased to exist.

And then…Yurt Guy answered his email.

Yurt Guy, aka Carlos, has a perpetually worried expression and keeps irregular hours because he is the caretaker for his babies, so if the daycare closes for COVID, he has to take them. He also does really good work.

I wanted what? Yes, he’s done this before. Yes, he can do that.

I went out to meet him, with hope in my heart.

My, there’s some water there, yes. Ah, would I object to vapor barrier? If they’re working in the crawlspace anyway…And perhaps rerouting the downspouts a bit?

“Carlos,” I said, with sweeping gestures, “my mother is seventy. Make this so that she never has to worry about it.”

I did not clutch his lapels while I said it, but it was a near thing.

He gave me the look he gave me on the yurt platform, namely “This deranged white woman does not know how negotiate and stinks of desperation. Someone is going to take her money. At least I will actually do the job right.”

He attempted to explain about water and settling and—well, yes, okay, he could fix it, he just wanted me to know—if they found mildew, he’d call before they did anything, but—

“Carlos,” I said. “It’s for my MOM. Get rid of the mildew.”

“I will send you a quote tomorrow,” he said, and stepped back, possibly concerned that I would fall on his neck and weep.

He was right to be concerned. But now, at last, I am relieved. It will cost more, it will be done in the gaps when he is not tending his small children, but it will be done beautifully.