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Posts Tagged ‘my kitchen renovation hell’

Here’s my secret: I’ve gone all Zumba.

Yes, according to all the marketing, I’ve “ditched the workout and joined the party!!!” with my dear friend KT. We’re both investing in our cardiovascular health by shimmying and rotating our hips, like, A LOT and listening to a peppy instructor in a Zumba-branded headband shout “AWESOME!!!!” at us, like, A LOT a lot.

I kind of like it.

Last week, we even ensnared our friend Mistress M into our web of zumba-ness and after the class, the three of us congratulated ourselves on being so aerobically-virtuous.

“It’s also good because it means we have an alcohol-free night!” KT exclaimed.

Mistress M looked crushed.

“Oh, that kind of ruins my next suggestion…” she said.

I almost didn’t hear her because our instructor’s “AWESOME!!!!” was still ringing in my ears, but I was quick to step in.

“I think it’s in everyone’s interest that we hear Mistress M’s suggestion,” I said, boldly.

CUT TO: us counter-balancing our Good Cardiovascular Works by inflicting serious damage on our kidneys.

Yes, it was what I call a KABO (a Key Alcoholic Beverage Opportunity). And somewhat surprisingly, it wasn’t the only KABO I’ve encountered in recent days.

You see, KT got an invitation to the premiere of a film one of her friends was in and she invited me to go with her.  The day before the premiere, we made the mistake of watching the trailer on YouTube. It was less than three minutes long and just watching the first thirty seconds almost brought on a KABO then and there. I mean, there is awful and then there is AWFUL (please note capitalisation).

Having already RSVPed and told her friend we were going, KT and I were left no option but to talk strategy for the evening. We would A) be seen mingling outside the cinema; B) take seats with a clear path to the exit; and C) escape at the earliest opportunity, the ‘elbow nudge’ being our signal that we’d had enough.

Which is what we did. AND THEN KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS SAT NEXT TO US. It was the equivalent of the school principal sitting next to you at a three-hour school concert where your kid’s act was up first and you were planning to spend the rest of the three hours at the pub down the road. Before the opening credits had even finished, I was already nudging KT so hard that I’d worn a whole in her sleeve and yet we both knew we couldn’t leave because KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS WAS SITTING NEXT TO US.

After half an hour of X-TREME AWFULness (again: note capitalisation), we turned to look at each other. Instinctively we knew what we had to do. We had no choice. No choice at all. I did my best “get down low and go, go, go!” and just got the hell out of there, with KT close behind. And we didn’t stop running until we got to the nearest bar, where we promptly KABOed ourselves back to mental health…

Now, speaking of mental health, you may be interested to know that, thanks to outsourcing the plastering, my kitchen now looks like this:

However, our flat packed kitchen (the choosing of which was, for me, akin to root canal treatment) still looks like this:

Now, that in itself doesn’t bring on the KABO. Oh, no. Not at all.

It’s this: my husband, thrilled by the beautiful job the plasterers had done, came up with the brilliant idea of moving our kitchen table into that nook and moving the oven and fridge over to the other wall.

“After all, it’s not too late to return the flat-packed kitchen to Ikea and start again,” he said.

It was like a neon sign lit up above his head that said KABO! However, since it was well before midday, I opted to give him the death stare instead. He has subsequently turned to stone and now I have nobody to unflat-pack my kitchen… and I feel a Category Seven KABO coming on.

Anyone care to join me? What’s that? You will??

AWESOME!!!!

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Tomorrow marks my seventh week without a functioning oven. Yes, seven weeks. Let’s count ‘em, shall we? One… two… three… oh, god, that noise you just heard was my spirit stabbing itself with a serving fork.  Either that, or my spirit stabbing my husband with a serving fork.

Here’s what happened.

My oven broke. To get really technical about it, that thingy that you have to pull out to light the thing got pulled out for good. And since the oven door was the detachable sort (not in a good way) and the knobs fell off when you looked at them sharpishly, we decided to replace the whole thing.

Unfortunately we then had to wait two weeks for some money to come in so we could afford to replace it.

But come that happy day, we marched into our local white goods store to order Our Brand New Oven. But somewhere somehow, in the middle of the ordering process, my husband changed his mind and decided we needed to consider renovating the whole kitchen before committing to one model or another.

For the record, my ability to talk renovations doesn’t extend much past the three minute mark, after which I start to glaze over and think about the bottle of wine in the fridge. If the conversation, say, wanders onto the topic of splashbacks and cupboard door handles, I start to think about the vodka bottle in the freezer. And if you tried, for example, to get me into some kind of FLOOR EMPORIUM to look at and discuss lino and carpet samples, then please be prepared to see me there swigging from the wine bottle and drinking straight from that vodka bottle with a straw at the same time. Just sayin’.

ANYWAY so I didn’t actually have to discuss renovations with him, I agreed to let my husband invite our friend C, who designs kitchens for a living, to come over and talk about them with him instead.

Within ten minutes of C arriving, I realised this was what’s officially known as a Bad Idea.  C and my husband began running about excitedly together, talking about knocking down walls and digging a three foot deep trench down the side of the house. And in one of those horror movie moments, C’s wife – who was helping me out with that bottle of wine in the fridge –  turned to me and revealed she hadn’t had running water in her kitchen or bathroom for over two years due to her husband’s own renovation project. I mean, she may as well have told me she no longer had a soul and wanted to eat my offal on toast for breakfast, such was my terror.

After C and his family left, my husband found me sobbing into my wine glass about “just wanting a fucking oven that worked”.

Luckily, my husband is a sensitive man. He saw my pain and realised it was all too much for me. He reassured me we’d just buy a replacement oven. The renovations could wait a few more years…

And then he changed his mind. Again.

Oh, he bought a new oven, all right. A good one, too. One that I am happy with – or rather, would be happy with except that it has been sitting, all warm and cozy and wrapped in plastic, cardboard and polystyrene in our garage for over a week now… while my husband has taken to one of our kitchen walls with a crowbar.

This is my kitchen now.

Extra points for spotting the almost empty bottle of vodka

And no, I didn’t see that coming, either.

The fact of the matter is I’m writing this blog post in the lounge room with the fridge next to me. The contents of my entire spice rack are currently alongside my bed just waiting for someone to make a joke about ‘spicing things up’ in the bedroom. For the record: don’t make that joke. DO NOT MAKE THAT JOKE.

But I think Tiddles McGee, all of four years old, put it best. When my husband first started pulling out the cupboards, he reportedly said  “I’m telling mummy you’re destroying the kitchen! She will think you’ve turned evil!”

Now where was that second bottle of vodka…

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