Treehouse schmeehouse

Call me a crabby patty if you must, but I will be elated when the men in my life finish buildingĀ this blastedĀ treehouse! They’ve been working on this thing for days…not only hubby and the two boys, but my father-in-law, the neighbor and the neighbor’s son.

My friends keep telling me to chill out, what kid wouldn’t love a treehouse, how lucky they are to have this. And I know these things. I’m glad for them. I am just growing weary of the incessant banging, hammering, yammering. And the compressor running the nail gun—it is so ancient and so LOUD that every time it comes on, I jump out of my skin because the noise is so startling. Sure the boys are going to end up with a treehouse, but their old ma might be shocked into a heart attack before it’s all said and done.

My postings have been really crabby this week, haven’t they? Forgive me. It just ain’t good for a woman with PMS to be surrounded by testosterone and all its accompanying noises 24/7. I need to go to the ballet, or a spa, or a rose garden or something…put a little more estrogen back into my life. šŸ˜‰