Kitchen bitchin'

Today the electrician came in for the first time. As I went downstairs this morning, I overheard voices through the opaque plastic curtain: "Million-dollar tinderboxes!" There was also some griping about how the salespeople really don't know how to price a job requiring extensive electrical work in said million-dollar tinderboxes. (For the record, it's not a million-dollar tinderbox. Per our latest assessment, it's a $667,000 tinderbox, Mr. Electrician.)

I won't hold that comment against him because he did a very nice job boring eight perfect circles in our ceiling for our cynlindrical indirect lighting. (When he made his recommendations about their placement, he asked if there would be any under-cabinet lighting; I suppressed the urge to tell him that people who live in million-dollar tinderboxes don't necessarily have the discretionary cash to add things like fancy-schmancy under-cabinet lighting.) He also put in nice spanking-new wires and roughed in switches and dimmers. And tore a lot of walls and floors to do so.

Which brings me to what you see here.

I'd warned Wayne on his first day about my fear of mice. Yesterday, when he was packing up, he called me into the work site with a serious look on his face. For the time being, there could be no way around the many large holes in the floor, walls and ceilings, he explained. He assured me he had seen no signs of rat droppings thus far anyway.

I sucked it up and decided to be brave, though I figured putting the plastic owl there couldn't hurt. The weather is nice, so with no food in the house the rats should have no valid reason to venture inside. We don't have much food around either, so unless they're looking to be invited out to Moe's with us, they'd be out of luck too. (I could probably develop a soft spot for vermin who appreciate moderately priced Tex-Mex.)