Fair responsibilities, unfair requests

Monday evening the air fluttered with talk of master plans, funding options, multiple phases,type II reviews, extensions, functional facilities, warehouse storage, access roads, RV parking, box office, promoter office, developer agreements, and livestock. Livestock? Yeah, bleating, mooing, clucking animals. Buzzzz. Even bees. I sat at the fair board meeting. Me. Closest I ever came to a farm was a visit, owned a horse once—well, half a horse—grew up with cats, and adult-on-my-own brought home a dog. What do I know about fairs, except cotton candy makes me sick and the Ferris wheel makes me scream, as in eek, I’m scared. How in the world did I end up on the fair board?

Interesting question (no, it’s not), glad you asked.

Not too long ago my manager promoted me into a supervisory role along with another employee. The manager began to slice up responsibilities. “Give me anything,” I said, “But not something that takes time out of my evening. I have parental responsibilities.” The other supervisor did, too, but his parental responsibilities included overseeing his crazy mother inbetween pursuing the full, happy life of a handsome bachelor who hangs out in the nicest pick up places. Bars. Guess who got the evening chore?

Now, every second Monday I sit in a room full of people my parent's age and talk about the county fair, and last night when they started talking about master planning, building, renovating, it just did something to my innards, as in ooh, yeah, baby. BRING IT ON. I LOVE A REMODELING JOB.

I adore remodeling so much I spent seven years putzing on our house. Then, after EVERY project went south from they ordered the wrong carpet, the paint is bubbling on the wall, they drilled a hole in the built-in cabinets in the wrong place, to the crap electrician wired for the washer, but NOT the dryer, I gave up. I could go on with a list of fifty gazillion more items, and no I am not kidding, just suffice it to say I hate knowing our first house would have been paid off by now (I know how to budget), instead, I had to tackle a dream that sunk courage into the deepest depression known to homeowners. That lament that starts, “Why, oh why did we decide to do this?” And ends with someone’s head banging against the wall. “Why?” Bang. “Whyyyyyy.” Bang. Bang. Bang.

I’m a crazy insane person. I love before-and-after, men who are skilled at their craft, the mess, the connecting of dreams with reality. Last night's fair board meeting was no exception. My hands curled into fists opening and closing, my heart started to beat faster and my breathing stilled to slow motion with each word that brought me closer to knowing someone would pick up a hammer and bust out a wall. It was chocolate to the soul. I floated on the heady fragrance of anticipation. Yes, we can tear something down and rebuild it. Can’t wait. Really, I want to do this. Especially if someone else is paying.

It’s an evil addiction with no Remodeler’s Anonymous to guide you out of the torture. I’m taking this hammer to hell.

So, where are you headed, what have you tried to remodel lately, or what has your boss asked you to do that took time away from your personal life? Bring it on, baby! My side addiction is comments.

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