Apr
13
Remedial remodeling
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April 13, 2007
We now have six choices of Benjamin Moore painted on a wall in the kitchen; behold:
I had high hopes for Dorset Gold, the bottom left color, but sadly it looks less like a bold, warm, artistic choice and more like something I’d find in Riley’s diaper after a meal involving carrots. I think Powell Buff (upper far left) is still my favorite, although I kind of like Barley (upper far right) too.
Bah. I’m already sick of the remodel and it hasn’t even started yet. We got our final bid back and it’s higher than we had expected, so we’re having to scale back on a couple things. We were going to do this really cool built-in bookcase door between the new office space and the living room, a sort of sliding pocket door structure that would contain shelves—almost like a Scooby-Doo-esque secret passage into a cave filled with gold coins!—but we got the quote on that and since there isn’t really a cave filled with gold coins with which we could pay for the (10K! Whafuck?) door system, NEVER MIND, we’ll just drape a beaded curtain there or something. The built-in kitchen nook also has a scary pricetag, so we’re thinking of just creating the space and putting in a table and chairs rather than building in the U-shaped bench we had planned on.
Next week the work officially starts, in that workers will demo our existing carport. That should be . . . loud and obnoxious, but at least there’s no construction inside the house yet. Thinking of the days ahead when we’ll be washing dishes in the bathroom and putting our kitchen and stove—where, exactly? It is a mystery!—I mentioned to JB last night that it would be easier, logistically speaking, just to move, if housing wasn’t so insanely ridiculously inflated that is, and he said, “Oh no, the remodel’s only going to take three months.”
He thought for a moment, then amended his statement: “Four months maybe.”
Riiiiiiight.
So this weekend we need to remove all the stuff that’s currently in the creepy, spider-filled storage closet in the carport in preparation for the demolition work. Once the carport is gone, there will be a giant open gap into the backyard, so we also need to figure out what the hell to do about Dog (build a temporary fence, maybe).
You know, the bright side of all this upcoming construction work is that Riley will be in seventh heaven. I hope they bring a GIANT EXCAVATOR.
All right, your turn. What are you doing this weekend?
Apr
12
Thoughts of Calgon
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April 12, 2007
The Process of Dealing with a Small Child Who Has Dropped An Object Just Out of Reach from the Carseat and is Now Howling At Top Volume:
Stage 1: Vague Commiseration
“Oh, did you drop your shoe? Sorry baby, Mama can’t get it for you. We’ll put your shoe back on when we stop.”
Stage 2: Over-Explanation of Cause and Effect
“Well, you dropped it on the floor, sweetie, and Mama is driving and she can’t reach back there. Maybe if you left your shoe on your foot this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe if you didn’t throw stuff so much.”
Stage 3: Growing Irritation
“Mama’s ears are starting to hurt, honey.”
Stage 4: Valiant Effort at Distraction
“And on that farm he had a . . . what did he have, Riley? A cow? A pig? And on that farm he had a . . . ?”
Stage 5: Eerie Zenlike Eye-of-Storm Calm
” . . . ”
Stage 6: Total Disregard for Vehicular Safety
(lunging wildly into backseat with one arm while keeping half an eyeball on the road)
“There! There! There! Take it, for the love of god! JESUS CHRIST.”
Stage 7: Brief Moment Where All is Right in the World
“Does Riley have his shoe back? That’s right, shoe. Okay! Okay. Whoo. Make sure you hang on to it this time, now.”
Stage 8: Heartbreaking “Thump” Sound Emanates from Backseat
(horrified silence)
Stage 9: Repeat Stages 1-8
Ah, parenthood. I wish the Sisyphean treadmill of toddler-wrangling burned calories, because dealing with a 19-month-old very often makes me want to run amok with a giant pan of peanut-butter-smeared brownies. What can I say, when drinking is no longer an option your vices become ridiculous clichés. Some people dream about unwinding from their stressful day with a glass of wine, but I can’t do that, because inevitably the glass of wine morphs into a tall gin-and-tonic, light on the tonic please, and the glass is cold and wet with condensation and there’s a juicy slice of lime nestled between the tinkling ice cubes, and . . . anyway, instead I entertain lustful thoughts of ravaging a bag of Girl Scout cookies.
Which is kind of a boring fantasy, so let’s try taking the cookies—Thin Mints, of course—out of the bag and scattering them across the naked, lightly sweating torso of Clive Owen, who is reclining on a set of thousand-thread-count sheets and murmuring delightfully-accented things at me. There, that’s better.
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