But not Miami. That show is jacked, yo.

W and I went to visit our lonely, so-freaking-close to finished house. We were going to pull the spare key out from under the *supersecret* and just let ourselves in. You know, like we lived there or something. But no key!

And then we were looking around the garage, going dude, wtf, and I noticed something...strange. There appeared to be blood everywhere. Drops and splatters covered the floor and steps.

Oh, so now they've decided to paint everything RED on top of the PUMPKIN ORANGE. I'm sure that will be a HUGE IMPROVEMENT.

But, that's a bit messy, isn't it? To just splash paint all over the place and then...track drips of it all through the house? Like...a crime victim?

And so I turned to my husband, who knows best in all things.

E: Dude, I think that's blood on the floor.
W: No.
E: Seriously. It's all over the hardwoods inside, too. There's a trail leading from the back of the house to out here.
W: *on his hands and knees, scraping at the CRIME SCENE with a paint tool* No way, dude, this is definitely paint.

AH! But it wasn't. When I called my father to complain about the lack of key when one had been explicitly promised, and hey, wtf with all the hellishly melodramatic blood-red paint everywhere, he called the contractor. Who, apparently, was at that moment in the emergency room having his finger stitched back on. He's had two surgeries already to reattach tendons. Which I suspect won't ultimately be very successful, because the very first thing that the contractor did when he got out of the ER was to drive over to our house UNBIDDEN to beat his gnarled up finger against the oven that that just been delivered. Under the guise of removing it from his truck and installing it. We told him that he should go home and concentrate on re-growing his finger, but he was having none of it. "Doesn't hurt a bit! They numbed me up good!" He cheerfully replied, thumping his bandage.

So things have stalled a bit, but clearly we're all still very dedicated to FINISHING THIS GODDAMN HOUSE. Finger or no!

Seriously, I felt a bit lightheaded watching him shove that oven. He let W help him move it into the house, but he wouldn't here of letting W and I handle the thing by ourselves. I drew the line, though, when he used his dirty, paint-spattered exacto-knife to trim off some of his bandages. I was like, no, stop that. You are insane. He apparently thought it was cute, future-nurse fussing when I took his knife away.