Fighting for independence

Unlike the rest of America, the Mosiman women dread the four-day week-end. While others are gearing up for fun in the sun, spending relaxing days lounging poolside, or kicking back with a slew of snacks in front of the tv, we quake in terror beneath the tyrannical rule of King Brad. According to him, four is the magic number in the time span equation of home repair or renovating. The first skirmish was small and initially, it appeared that the colonists were victorious. But when the smoke of the 4th of July parade faded and we had employed our first round of avoidance and denial by abandoning Brad at home to single-handledly wrestle a thirty-five-year old carpet from our dining room, we didn't count on the reverberative repercussion as waves of guilt overwhelmed us.

Day two: Morale is low as battle-weary troops gaze upon the barren landscape. Two hills remain untaken: the hutch and the computer desk. With our shoulders set against the resistant cheap wood laminate, we rallied a war-cry and ripped the orangish floor-covering free.

Our now-cavernous dining room became the setting for one of the largest games of Risk ever played as Brad directed our endless shifting of furniture forces. "You, over there," he barked, waving a pair of needle-nosed pliers threateningly in my direction, "Line up the high-backed chairs to protect the east flank." I glanced with confusion toward Savannah who discreetly pointed to the left while complying with her father's order to move the table, closing a vulnerable gap allowing for a  direct hit on the microwave cart. The troop rations train must be protected to allow for the unrestricted re-heating of barbecue spare ribs and pizza bagel bites.

Day three: Savannah and I are sent out on a top-secret reconnaissance mission. Unintentionally dressed like a harlot, I entered Home Depot to obtain much-needed materials for my militia. Between us, Savannah and I conveyed hundreds of pounds of ceramic tile from the supply source. We received many admiring looks as we leaned and lifted and loaded our purchases. In retrospect, next time I will forego my cute summer blouse for a form-fitting turtleneck. Dangerously deviating from my list, I abdicated adhesive for mortar and really went out on a limb in my unauthorized requisition of tile cleaner and re-sealer. Several hours later, we returned to base where Brad unceremoniously forced us into a merciless deluge of unloading. History will later name this event "Tiles of Tears."

Day four: The cover-up. See the picture to understand why:

What lies beneath:
Memorial wreath linoleum commemorating the fallen orangish rug