yet to be named

It is Sunday morning and this new family of mine is rising, one by one, from the basement and the upstairs. We are collectively embarking on a home-demolition project soon, staring at the wall that will come down to make room for the new, improved staircase. (I shouldn't say new family. It all seems very normal, finally-- the girls adjusted to me and me to them. I should post pictures. They are beautiful. And they, like my son, are a part of the woodwork, invisible, expected, loved. The rest of them: the inlaws, the outlaws, are more than enough, and when family expectations consume an entire weekend, aaarrggghhh. I am anxious for time alone with K and the comfortable silence of busy weekends spent together.)

Anyway, we bought a chop-saw, (unlike chawksaw, or chawktaw, or is it chickasaw? of Ode to Bille Jo-fame) and have now gathered most of the tools needed to take apart the current stairwell (exactly as wide as my ass) that originates in the center of the house, rising from first floor to second somewhat like an afterthought-- as though the second floor was an occasionally used treefort, needing only a thin ladder for access -- and build a four foot wide stairway that takes off from the foyer like it should. Foyer is a bit formal, really, it is just that the front door opens and you are in. The plan is to create a master-bedroom upstairs with a walk-in closet for all my crap. What I need is a room I can toss my clothing and close the door. On the rare occasions when I clean it, it is like christmas... finding all those lost items.

I want red boots from Born. Two dots above the o, I think. Like Bjorn Borg.