Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Paul Pierce > Ron Costa

Yesterday at lunch, I headed to the house to meet up with my General Contractor and the guy who hands out checks. When I pulled into the driveway, there was no sign of Electrician Ron's truck. "Maybe he finished this morning," I thought. Making sure to keep my expectation realistic, I rejected that thought almost immediately, as ER has done nothing to warrant optimism from me.

I stepped into the house and immediately noticed that nothing had been done. Great. Really very great.

Shortly thereafter, Al Medina, my honest and decent General Contractor showed up, followed by Richard Who Will Pay Us. We went through the house noting the progress and he agreed to release thousands of dollars to Al and I (most of which is going straight to Al). We shook hands and I headed back to work.

After work, I got to the house, ready to change and start the drive to Boston. Ron apparently hadn't shown up, as nothing was done, so he continues to surpass my wildest expectations of unprofessionalism. I gave him a call, left a message and Amanda and I piled in the car for the game.

The game was amazing.

An aside:

When I was a kid, much younger, I went to a Bruins/Canadians hockey game with my dad. As of yesterday afternoon, it was the greatest sporting event I'd ever attended to spectate. Not really for the game itself, as I barely remember anything from it, but because of the momentous first step into adulthood I took during the game.

At one point during the game, there was a call, deemed unfavorable by the old Garden crowd, that went against the Bruins. As was (and still is) customary, the crowd began to chant "bullessword" in order to let the offending referee know that, overall, the majority of the crowd was displeased with the his apparent lack of rational decision-making. When I realized what was being chanted, I knew I wanted to join in, as I was young and was happy to follow in the mob mentality. Unsure of myself, as it's generally not OK to swear in front of your parent, I looked up at my dad, with what I assume was my best attempt at Bambi Eyes. No words were exchanged, only the silent understanding that I needed his approval to scream obscenities at a man in stripes with skates on. He nodded his silent blessing. With the approval of my father, I proceeded to rain a swear down from the balcony at the top of my lungs, over and over, until the crowd's jeers had subsided. Proud of myself, I'm pretty sure I beamed the rest of the night.

Last night's overtime game is now the best game I've ever been to. I kept the swearing to a minimum and didn't give Amanda the Bambi Eyes once (to my knowledge), but the game's occurrences were enough to solidify it at the top of my lifetime list.

Sorry for straying from the strict "house related info only" policy around here, but the game was really very good. Incredible even.

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