Mr. Gorbachev, tear down my wall!

The Fall of the Berlin Wall, 1989. The photo s...

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I have my very own Berlin Wall in my bedroom. NO, my husband and I did not have a fight and divide up the room. And the communists did not show up and overthrow our democracy. It’s worse than that. It involves insulation, a hole in the wall and a missing worker guy.

It all started when a man I’ll call “Marvin” sent over his crew to spray foam insulation into our walls. Well, the guys got a little carried away, and wanted to make sure that they REALLY, REALLY put enough insulation in the wall, and then this happened:

Too much of a good thing

Enter Adam the worker guy that Marvin hired to fix the wall. Anticipating a week of dust and mess, we emptied everything out of the bedroom except the essentials – the bed and a dresser that was too big to move. Our bedroom was stripped to essentials – not unlike a gulag cell. So Adam showed up, and being a meticulous worker guy, walled off the area to be repaired with plastic tarps, creating the first, as far as I know,  plastic Berlin Wall. Our own little corner of socialism, tucked unassumingly away in middle America. Then he left and has never returned.

The problem is that now the bed is in West Berlin, while the  heat vent is in East Berlin. It’s bad enough that Adam cut a hole in the wall and never returned. And the Berlin Wall is nearly touching the foot of my side of the bed, causing me to inch around it to get in and out of bed daily. (At least he didn’t put up a mine field and razor wire, like that OTHER Berlin Wall.) So each night I throw extra blankets on the bed, knowing that by morning the room will be cold, with all my heat co-opted by the socialists while I’m sleeping with the capitalists. And every day, like a bad first date, Stalin, er Adam doesn’t show up and doesn’t call.

I want my heat back! I want my room back! Mr. Gorbachev, get over here and tear down my wall!!

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