Actually, Mr. Man is probably not sorry. As he says, AND I QUOTE, "It's just labor". But I am sorry. I am very very sorry.
I invented a new word to describe my cellulose insulation experience (and a new-found respect for professionals who install insulation for a living): EXHAUSTIPATED. If I didn't live with Mr. Man? There is No. Effing. Way. I will. ever. EVAH do something like this again. The whole thing was a nightmare. A thankless, sweltering, exhaustipating, covered in a fine dust nightmare. Also? I win 'shittiest blog post' award because I took NO photos. Not even one. I totally forgot to document the miracle of cellulose insulation installation.
ISSUE #1-SHE'S A BRICK HOUSE
ISSUE #2-SHE'S A FUSSY BITCH
Once in position, respirators on, it was my job to continually drop enough cellulose insulation into the blower hopper to ensure a steady stream for Mr. Man, who was
1. Turn on machine and drop chunk of insulation into hopper. Thar she blows!
2. After a little while, rotating thingees jam.
3. Turn machine off. Attempt unjamming rotating thingees using broom handle so Mr. Man doesn't have to crawl out of attic. Remove cellulose insulation at BOTTOM OF HOPPER using orangutang arms and Tupperware container, in an attempt to see what in the fuck. Go back to work with broom handle. Tupperware/orangutang. Broom handle. Swearing.
5. Mr. Man sighs, crawls out and gets machine started.
REPEAT 1-5 seven more times over 6 hours.
I wanted to do this to the machine
This being a home improvement blog, I should probably now share lots of helpful hints, advice and counsel for you, but all I've got is this: CALL A PROFESSIONAL.