The work on my water-damaged sunroom began on Monday morning, although I wasn’t there to see it happen. The crew arrived after I left for work and were gone by the time I brought the ailing elder Demi home from school over my lunch hour.
I know they had been there because the drywall, some of the linoleum flooring, and part of the ceiling in that room are gone. A portion of the subfloor was replaced, and there’s new insulation in the wall, but there’s no new drywall and the ceiling remains open because it’s wet, wet, wet up there. The second time he called me Monday morning, the contractor said he’d send out a roof guy to look around up there and try to figure out the source of the moisture problem. They won’t be able to replace the ceiling or finish the walls until everything is dry, which will likely not be soon with all the rain and snow we keep getting. And I haven’t seen this roofing guy yet, and haven’t heard from the contractor since Monday.
So now mostly I’m trying not to be wholly overcome with anxiety about how much this is all going to cost me and whether or not this contractor, whose name I got from my insurance company, is some kind of predatory scam artist who is going to destroy my house and disappear with all my money.
Which is totally rational since I haven’t actually paid him a cent yet. (And yeah, I checked him out with the Better Business Bureau already.)
I consider myself a reasonably capable individual. Just last week, when the light switch in the living room went wacky and started sparking and making smoke, I replaced it all by myself. So why is it that whenever some big thing needs fixing, whether it’s the car or the washing machine or the roof of my house, all I want to do is crawl into the back of my closet and hide?