Wednesday. Skelly sends me a text and says my house looks like a marshmallow.
Recently wrapped in white Tyvek as part of an extensive renovation, I quickly deduce he’s in the park across the street from it, with his dog Dante.
I SMS him back. “Jet-Puffed or hand cut?”
As if he expects me to believe his dog has the requisite dexterity to type on such a small keyboard, he writes back “woof”.
Five months ago we moved out for a four month stint in my sisters’ basement while our ninety year old house got a makeover. Conventional wisdom be damned, we were so confident the contractor understood the exigence of our situation, we packed the new baby’s car seat in the POD with the rest of our gear and shipped it to a warehouse in Richmond.
“Baby is due in April. We’re home February. Why do we need to schlep the car seat around?” I said back when the cherry trees were dropping their leaves. Now they’re all in bud, and we’re preparing to bring our little girl home in a borrowed bucket to a room we preface with the word rumpus.
Thursday. I dash out of the Café to meet Mrs. Mink and the contractor on site and discuss timing for drywall.
“We’re loading board Monday,” he says nonchalantly. “Two weeks to tape, mud and sand. We’ll have you in by Easter.”
Ordinarily, we’re making chocolate bunnies and filled eggs and the celebrated Flat Pack Easter Egg chocolate bar on the heels of Valentine’s Day, but the holiday is late this year. Still, I take little comfort from his assurance.
I command my lovely bride to open her jacket.
“Ed. We’re not having twins! She’s so ready you may have to catch this one in the back of that shiny new F-150 I’m helping to make the payments on.”
No one laughs.
I think to myself that if I were a betting man, which I am, moving in by the Victoria Day long weekend is looking like even money.
Mrs. Mink and I reconvene on the sidewalk, out of earshot of the trades.
“All things considered, they’re doing a great job, and the house will be a wonderful place to raise our young family,” she says, noting in her iPod Touch the time and duration of an apparent contraction.
I make a mental note to bring home more chocolate.
Friday. Fred sends me a text. “Baby yet?”
I reply “No, still very much pregnant.”
He writes back, “Did you ever determine if you’re the father?”
I reply with a smiley icon.
He writes again, “Is that a yes or no or maybe”
Saturday. I take our dog back into the ‘hood to give her some face time with Dante. Friends since they were puppies, it’s game on as they start chasing each other around the tennis courts.
Skelly turns to me and says, “The neighborhood consensus is you’re back in by Labor Day.”
Just then, the carpenters show up. They’re actually going to work on the weekend. I’m so excited, I text my wife “Woot”, but instead of hitting the letter t, I press the letter right below it and it goes out as “Woof”.
Instantly she texts back, “Good doggie. And on the way home, please fetch mama more chocolate.”
Marc Lieberman
Mink Chocolates Inc.,
Mink A Chocolate Cafe Ltd.
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Nine out of every ten persons say they love chocolate. The tenth lies.
– Anthelme Brillat-Savarin