We have been in the "Home Renovation Stage" for the last 14 years. When we bought this house, we saw all the possibilities. A huge kitchen, four bedrooms, two full baths and a decent back yard. The loft overlooking the living room, cathedral ceilings, and a corner fireplace added to the charm. Fast forward 14 years and this house has become the bane of our existence. It is livable, for sure. It is not, however, cosmetically where we want it to be. And, while we have replaced the roof, siding, windows, front yard, driveway, hot water heater, carpeting and redid the patio and one bathroom, it is far from finished.
The biggest sore spot is and always has been - the kitchen. Our kitchen is large and probably could be used as a dance area for a small wedding. But. It is. Hideous. I won't even post a full photo of this room. Not any kind of photo, in fact. The floor is vintage 70s green linoleum. The cabinets are vintage 70s DARK. The oven quit working a year ago July. So you can imagine how many times I've thrown that at my husband when he hasn't been thrilled with the dinner I make. "It's been a freaking YEAR without an oven. You are a vegetarian. Which makes it difficult in the first place to come up with variety - and protein. Now I've been dealing with no oven for over a year." And he keeps saying, "We'll get a new one when we redo the kitchen."
My neighbors recently banded together and created a not-for-profit organization called, "Maggie's Stove Quest -OR- Kill the Husband, Whichever Comes First." They are insisting that the lot of us stand together in solidarity, go to Home Depot and get me an oven or, in the alternative, sign up, at least on a temporary basis, with the mafia.
"I mean, what's he going to do? DIVORCE you if you go and get a lousy oven?"
"He wouldn't survive one month in my house. Not a week in fact!"
"Oh, he wouldn't survive a DAY in my house!"
"Who the hell does he think he is?"
"I'd quit cooking."
"We're going. Together. And we're picking out the best [and most expensive] oven they have!"
Just when I'm panting and foaming at the mouth, ready to storm off to Home Depot waving my check book and willing to take down any man who gets in my way, that little angel on my left shoulder whispers, "Oh, stop now. Be patient. Settle down. You'll get your stove in due time. After all, this is a good life lesson for you - patience. It's a virtue, you know." After smacking her several times in rapid succession and knocking her into next week's drama, I smoothe my clothes, put the checkbook back, and try to be a good wife. And pretend that it's no big deal trying to make eggplant parmesan without an oven.
But we are making progress. We have decided on cabinets, lighting and paint color. First, however, Druck needs to do some rewiring. So yesterday, he brought in this old radio from the garage, plugged it into a kitchen outlet, and turned it on - LOUD. Liam was visiting, and when we all began dancing to "Legs" by ZZ Top, I assumed this was solely for Liam's entertainment. When Liam and his mama left, I went about my business and turned down the radio.
While in my bedroom, pulling sheets off the bed, I noticed that the radio was blaring again. So I went and turned it off. Returning to my room, throwing sheets and pillowcases into a pile, I hear the radio come back on but, not only that, it is cutting in and out. Deciding there must be a short circuit, I return to the kitchen. "Bizarre," I whisper, scratching my head, and decide to just unplug the thing.
I head to the living room to pick up toys when I hear Druck's footsteps and voice in the kitchen. "What the hell?" he says. Of course, I don't associate any of that with the radio so, when the radio comes on again, I shoot upright and stand very still because sometimes when one stands very still, some sense can be made of things that, to most other people, would have made sense five minutes earlier. Because Druck is nowhere to be found and the radio keeps turning on and off, I return to the kitchen and, standing there with my hands on my hips, staring at the radio like it's going to look at me and shrug or give me some kind of explanation, I once again unplug it, vowing to mention to Druck that his radio has problems and to quit plugging it back in because who wants to listen to music like this anyway?
Not 15 seconds later, Druck comes stomping into the room looking annoyed. "What are you doing?" he says in an accusatory tone.
"I think there's something wrong with this radio," I reply. "It keeps turning off and on. I think there's a short." He says nothing, swipes past me and plugs the radio in. Again. "DON'T TOUCH IT."
How was I to know he was checking circuits for his electrical rewiring project? All he had to do was tell me. And as for that angel on my shoulder? Last I saw her, she was standing on the corner, thumb out, bruised, angry, and yelling, "To hell with patience. Margaritaville, here I come. See ya later, Suckas."
Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma
