As is the case with most households, we pretty much live in the kitchen. Food happens there, of course, but so do soul-baring, cross-word puzzling, game-playing, homework-doing, robot-building, friend-entertaining, and mind-numbing-boozing. We spend a good part of every day in that room; it is, quite clichedly, the heart of the house.
Yet our kitchen sucks big donkey dicks. Dark, dated, baneful, and nonsensical (what is that nutty little hallway that cuts a swathe through any sense of “flow”?), our kitchen is Suck packed into four walls, dusted with oil-drenched and groaning appliances, topped off with a cherry of dropped ceiling and atrocious light fixtures.
The kitchen is, essentially, made out of All Things Poo.
Literally, before people enter our house for the first time, I stop them in the foyer to apologize for the kitchen. I know they will want to shower after walking through it, and some may find they want to up their doses of anti-depressants.
Kitchen must die.
While we’ve been planning its ultimate demise for a few years now (awaiting an estate payout that would finance the remodel), we haven’t quite gotten around to an orchestrated euthanasia yet. In the absence of our taking action, Kitchen seems to be taking matters into her own, um, faux-granite counters. Kitchen is getting suicidal.
First, she started purposefully hemorrhaghing linoleum tiles, causing them to stick to the bottoms of our feet as we carried tea from stove-top to table. Trying to save her from herself, we peeled up the remaining linoleum, inasmuch as possible (a few tiles remain under the fridge and radiator, where they artfully catch marbles, barrettes, and fridge magnets, and generally look like masses of Poo holding marbles, barrettes, and magnets), and in the process, we discovered a lovely old hardwood floor that will one day be refinished.
Next, Kitchen hacked up a microwave door handle, snapping it off one day and leaving us with a wall-mounted (above the stove) microwave that could only be opened by inserting one’s fingernails into the slot between the body of the microwave and its door. With a tough, sometimes nail-damaging, yank, we could ease fraying tempers by warming up a comforting bowl of Campbell’s Dora the Explorer chicken noodle soup.
Sure, some people would cave and get a new microwave.
However, we are made of firmer stuff. We know full well that if we bought a new microwave, when we do finally remodel the joint some months down the line, we’d end up planning the entire remodel around “the microwave we bought last Fall” which, invariably, would fit nowhere and would clash with all desired color schemes. Our fingernails would just have to bear the brunt of our parsimoniousness.
But then, suddenly last week, Kitchen urged Microwave to take a stand. Microwave was no longer satisfied with the Handle Challenge. Nope. He wanted our complete attention. Taking a cue from his cousin, Fridge, he set his fan to moaning and grigging and whooping, until finally Groom was compelled to tape the thing shut with a long line of masking tape reading “Do Not Use.” Of course, since I’m the only other person in the house with the might to open the thing, I was pretty sure that obvious face-smacker of a message was personal.
With tit needing tat, I then taped a message across Groom’s nostrils reading, “Do Not Snore.” The masking tape approximates a Breathe Rite strip amazingly well.
Just a little FYI in the midst of all this DIY.
Anyhoodle, Kitchen’s health has clearly been spiraling downwards for some time. Kitchen is a wanker.
Out of a downward spiral can come a flash of unexpected creativity and warmth. Just as Kitchen’s shenanigans edged us towards a broil, Groom realized we needed to embrace the demise. We hated the monstrosity that was the microwave, just as we’d hated the linoleum on the floor. So, hell, why not toss the beast out? Why not remove that strangely-placed kitchen accessory (it hung very low over the stovetop) and make it possible to actually stir a pot of stew this winter?
And as long as a few feet of wall were getting opened up there, why not toss a whimsical painting onto that space? In a few months, the room will get a full-body makeover, and anything we do know will be nullified, anyhow. So why not do it up?
After a family brainstorm of possible mini-murals…during which we gently rejected the kids’ rainbow- and Pokemon-inspired scenarios…this is what Groomeo pulled off with a few hours’ work:
Such a modified wall space lifts my heart everytime I enter the kitchen to dig another handful of chocolate chips out of the bag, and that’s frequently. It makes my spirits sing as I pour granola into my yogurt. It makes my eyes twinkle as I pull the cork out of the wine. More honestly, it makes my eyes twinkle as I unscrew the cap on the wine.
As I love up the new wallspace, I’m considering starting to hate other parts of the house, just so Groomeo can paint over them and create unexpected and capricious little scenes.
Come to think of it, I strongly dislike the bare plain that is our toilet seat. Wouldn’t it benefit from a picture of Pikachu lounging under a rainbow?
When fun idea meets with competent execution, any house project can become glamorous, ja?
Just look at what The Master and his Wee Niblet Apprentice cranked out a few weeks ago, with little more inspiration than the words, “Daddy, we should make a haunted house out of shoe boxes.”
I dig my “anything-is-possible” boys.