Sixth in a series. “Living out of one box was ingenious for forty-five seconds. After that, it was annoying as hell,” says my beloved as he looks forward to the prospect of filling the pantry. Until then, our key spices, oils and other cooking essentials are housed in a single cardboard container.
Demolition took place in mid-June. We are ready to move back into the kitchen on August 31, after we give the cabinets a good cleaning with a glove that looks like a hand puppet.
Our attitudes during the process of schlepping and unpacking boxes went from, “Wow, we have so much storage space, we’ll never fill it” to, “What are we going to do with all this stuff? How much can we toss or donate?”
Because my husband is a yummy six-foot-four, our cabinets are tall, too. So tall, I can barely reach the third shelf.
That’s okay, since I am a groundling, we engineered in a cabinet for my fold-up step stool.
One day as I pull handles and open doors to learn where things now live, I find an empty drawer, get an idea, grab my MacBook and slip it in. Perfect fit. The island has become my favorite place to write. (Progress on People in Charge: A Novel, continues.) Having a drawer for my Mac feels like the ultimate in luxury and sophistication.
My beloved walks in and says, “I love this kitchen.”
Too bad we aren’t yet done with the renovation.
Why not? In mid-July, demolition revealed a leak from the bathroom.
Opening the wall did not reveal the source.
The bathroom is gutted in stages beginning in mid-September, revealing layers and layers or rot and yet more inexplicably applied spray foam.
As with the kitchen, my love packs the boxes because my method of helping is to examine and ponder each item and begin discussing its merits. Not productive. Now I have no clue where my mud mask is, and the quality of my skin proves it.
“They took our bathroom. How many times am I going to forget that and step into an empty space?” my husband asks. Answer: many, many times. I do it, too.
Our former upstairs toilet, which is pink, now sits in front of the house. Stay classy. I will not miss its water-wasting need for several flushes per visit nor high-pitched whine. I do, however, miss its former proximity.
The downstairs bathroom, added during the original renovation (all told, that project ran from September 2006 through June 2010), is directly below the master bedroom. Even in a small ranch house, that’s quite a distance at three in the morning. Take eleven stairs down, turn at the landing, take six more stairs, walk across the room, ascend three stairs to enter the bathroom.
Far. During the night when I had a belly ache, it was rrrrreeeeeeeaaalllllllllyyyyy fffffaaaaarrrrrr.
How did people in the bad old days survive going to an outhouse at night in winter (uphill, both ways)? How is it almost 594 million people in India are today without toilets?
The omnipresent construction dust hitches a ride to bed by clinging to my feet. My heart pounds from the workout. My mind begins to ponder the next day’s to-do list.
With hope for limiting such nocturnal wanderings, I ration liquids, reducing intake after nine at night to three measured sips of water that I let sit on my tongue before swallowing. My face shows signs of dehydration.
There is an upside. From the downstairs bathroom, I’ve enjoyed seeing the sun rise over the lake while showering and sitting on the throne.