How small is it?

The place I live is so small that ...

As I posted last week, the house was damaged by an out-of-control tire and I have spent the week trying to find a bricklayer (otherwise known as a Mason, but that's another blog for someone else with more time and more imagination). I simply want someone to remove the bricks that are no longer attached to the house, clean them up real pretty, and put them back again. Sounds easy enough.

I had no idea how hard I was apparently trying until Thursday. I admit I had made quite a few phone calls, chatted about it in the grocery store, even stopped by a lumber yard for a few recommendations.

But I never thought my gynecologist would get involved in the search. There I was, lying back on the table, feet in the stirrups, the sounds of instruments of torture clanging in my ears, and he, in his most doctorly manner says, "So, I hear you need a bricklayer."

That's just not a conversation I ever expected to have at that particular moment. But have it we did, and I walked away with one more name to add to my list of possibility.

If he does return my call, I won't be telling that bricklayer how I found his name.