Rousted from bed at 7:30/8 a.m. (might as well be pre-dawn for me) with the handy loudspeaker reminder it’s street cleaning-car towing day.

Not long after and definitely before my final shower, boom the contracting guys are here to start fucking up my bathroom. Only there is what I hope to be the only problem to arise — no key to the cellar where all the plumbing and shit lives. A few frantic phone calls to the other contractors, the siding and windows guys, and the key will be en route in a half-hour or so.

My morning ablution is thus saved. Thank fucking Christ.

Fresh out of the shower and before any kind of caffeine the “demo” guys are here. Demo as in demolition, or as I mistakenly called it “destruction” when I had to call in to contracting HQ. They weren’t sure what to destroy, and they were pretty eager to do it all and start without instructions. But, the head contractor team guy shows up just in time to save my bathroom door and a few other things (like the radiators attached to a gasline, boom).

Crowbars, hammers, pick axes and all sorts of actually recognizable weapons of mass destruction were hauled into my hallway, and next thing my toilet is literally flung out my hall window.

Now I’m drinking coffee, a tad more lucid, and listening to some demo guy (kind of ghetto fun chat involving pregnancy, emergency c-sections and a six-year license suspension) while they take turns swinging sledge hammers. Waking up and letting strange men start going wild with crowbars requires faith.

Faith that, yah, that is what was supposed to happen. Most importantly, faith that someone else will indeed come by with a new toilet.