PART ONE OF THIS POST IS HERE.
Step 5: Find out if you still have all those extension cords you thought you had.
Again, to the inexperienced craftsman, many of these steps might seem only tangentially related -- at best-- to making a walk-in closet out of an old, unused, potentially bat-infested bedroom, but to the inexperienced craftsman, "Cap'n Crunch" probably doesn't look like the kind of thing you could make Rice Krispie treats out of, so who are you going to listen to, him, or someone who narrowly avoided going into diabetic shock that one time?
We have many extension cords in our house, most of them existing in a nether world between dimensions and popping into existence in our locale only when they are unnecessary: if you are carrying a bunch of grocery bags filled with eggs and other valuables (Pop Tarts), or if you are carrying a heavy appliance, or if you are reading your Kindle and not paying attention to where you are walking, or if you are doing all of those things at once, you're guaranteed to trip over one of our 4,000 extension cords. If, on the other hand, you are attempting to locate an extension cord so that you might be able to plug in your sons' television into another outlet in order to get back to the part of this project where you investigate whether your laundry room is on fire -- remember that! -- you're going to have to go get the giant, 100' long, bright green, only-slightly-nicked-in-the-one-part-where-once-you-kind-of-hit-it-with-the-hedge-trimmer extension cord. Careful not to touch THAT part!
Step 6: Go out to the garage and shake your head ruefully at the garage door, which has not been replaced yet but at least looks like you live in a shack built out of houses that were abandoned. In the Okeefenokee swamp.
Remember how I've been mentioning, here and there, ALMOST CONSTANTLY, how my garage door blew up? Literally exploded?
But lucky for me, it happened on a day when Sweetie was really sick, so I was at home to see it/almost be killed by it!
Step 7: Gather 'round the campfire, kids, while I tell you The Ballad of The Explodin' Garage Door.
The fog settled down
Like the clothes of a clown
Yeah. I've got nothing. I knew I should have sprung for that guest appearance by Mumford & Sons. Stupid budget cuts.
About three weeks ago, I spent the day in Milwaukee, with The Boy, as an extra on the set of the soon-to-be-released movie Zombie Frat House, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend an entire day standing around with fake blood on my face and then go order hamburgers, and I returned home from that experience in high spirits (Get it? What do you mean zombies aren't spirits? They're all... never mind. You're just being difficult) to find Sweetie a bit worse for the wear, having taken care of the boys all day with what we'd thought was a pretty bad cold, only it wasn't a pretty bad cold. It was... something else? I don't know. I mean, seriously, you're reading an essay about how to build a walk-in closet, and you want medical information? You'll be lucky if you get information about a walk-in closet out of this.
Anyway, Sweetie said that she was going to go up to bed and lay down because she didn't feel well, and so I was spending a bit of time with the boys, and eventually it was time for them to take their baths, and I got Mr F's all done, and he was in his room watching TV (this is in the past, remember, before all the electricity went out, etc.) and Mr Bunches was taking his bath and Sweetie suddenly barged in and said she had to bwah!
Step 8: What's a bwah?
Oh, right, that: That means throw up. Back in the winter, Mr Bunches had the stomach flu and spent most of the day throwing up and then asking me if he was done ("I hope so," I told him, knowing mostly he wasn't) and then going back to sleep, and then repeating that about 14 times.
Earlier this summer, then, Mr Bunches wanted to play "spin" in the boys' swing in our living room, and so I twisted him up and spun him, about a zillion times, and after that he was dizzy enough that he said "no more" and then went and sat on the couch and announced "I have to bwah," and when we asked him what that was he pantomimed throwing up.
Which makes sense, if you think about it, since Mr Bunches has never been told what "throwing up" is and had to make up his own word for it.
Step 9: Where were we again?
Sweetie did not say she had to bwah, she just said "I have to... get out of the bathroom!" and pushed me aside and closed the door, so I was outside the bathroom and Mr Bunches, unfortunately for him, was inside the bathroom, so I heard the sounds of bwah-ing and I also heard Mr Bunches saying "You'll be okay, mommy," and when I thought things were okay for me to go in and help, I went in and saw Mr Bunches trying to sneak carefully past a nearly-prone Sweetie.
I helped Sweetie back to bed and got Mr Bunches squared away with pajamas and all, and then a few minutes later Sweetie was at it again, and then a few minutes after that, and then I noticed that Sweetie was pale and clammy and not able to stand up.
Here's the thing about Sweetie: About a year ago, everyone in the house, except me, got the flu and was bwah-ing like nobody's business. I was in charge of everyone being sick and at the first sign of trouble, I stopped eating much and switched over to just eating some light toast and Popsicles and the other things you're supposed to eat when you're recovering from the flu, and as a result, while I got a little queasy later in the day, I never bwahed.
Sweetie listened to me telling that when she was all better, and twice since then when Sweetie has gotten the flu -- which we get at our house about every three days, probably owing to Mr F's love of public bubblers-- she has tried to avoid the worst of it by switching over to my flu diet, only Sweetie doesn't do it right and gets herself dehydrated, mostly because (I think) Sweetie switches over to that diet about a week before she actually gets sick.
What that means is that Sweetie has the last two times made the flu worse, and both times has required a trip to the ER to get fluids because she can't barely move, and that Sunday night, about 10:00 at night, I realized that was where she was, and we packed up the car to head to the ER, where I would be implicitly accused of beating her.
Step 10: Will we ever talk about walk-in closets again?
Very possibly, yes.
Click here for the next part.