The Chronicles of Marge

We've Only Just Begun

The kitchen destruction began over a week ago, and folks, this is no joke. I think a lot of people don't understand what it means when we say we are redoing the kitchen. Most folks think of a paint job, some new hardware, and maybe a shiny-ass granite counter top, and voila! Kitchen remodeled. And of course, Most Folks (and trust me, most of you are included in that group) imagine that we've hired a professional member of Four Inches of Ass Crack While on the Job to do the work for us. But Most Folks are dead wrong. Neither Jason nor I were brought up by parents who ever paid anyone else to do anything. I mean, where is the excitment in that? I think my parents decided to forgo family vacations to exotic places like Disney World because raising small children in a house without staircase railings was much more of an adventure and cost a lot less money. And for the family Mathes: why not go ahead and solve all of your children's possible lifelong bathroom insecurities at a young age and skip indoor plumbing altogether. Yeah, if you can squat in tick-infested woods in the middle of the night, you can go to the bathroom anywhere.

Also, neither Jason nor I believe in doing anything halfway, which means that there are no cowards living in the Casa Mathes. Just crazies. Behold:

When I got home from work last Friday, I could tell that Jason was nervous. We had talked about studs and subflooring, but he was afraid he had gone too far and that I might construe this as an "Irreconcilable Difference" and file some papers and leave him with the house in its current state because why the hell would I want to learn to rewire the kitchen by myself? But alas, I walked through the door and was immediately reminded of my childhood, and I called my mother that evening and thanked her for bringing her children up in a construction zone. Little did she or my father know then how it would condition me for my adult life. Because right now, all I really want to do is curl up in a special cover and sit on the kitchen floor, surrounded by old nails and splinters of wood, while The Carpenter's "We've Only Just Begun" plays in the background, because, really, this feels like home, and I might as well get used to it, because this may be my life for the foreseeable future.

Deer and Dishwashers

Sitting here having a really dead moment at work. Not actually thinking about death or the large-ass dead deer in the bike lane that I had to maneuver around on my way to work this morning, which caused me to be all, "Oh my gosh, that is gross." But then it made me think about supper.

Anyway, it also reminded me of the story my sister Kat once told of driving on the interstate through the Deep South—Mississippi or Alabama or somewhere similar and desolate—and witnessing a man who had stopped in the median and was skinning a dead deer that had been hit by a car. I shit you not. These people exist (and considering the fact that my dad brought home a dead fox in the trunk of his car once means that I'm also RELATED to these crazy fools. I can just see the headlines now: Woman on Bike With Dead Deer Strapped to Handlebars Pleads Genetics in Case of Misdemeanors Involving the Removal of Roadkill from the Highway).

So what's new, you might ask? Not much. I haven't seen the sun since Sunday—it is Thursday now. And although it has been pretty balmy out for December, I feel like my vitamin D level has dropped to an all-time low and will require a vacation in the Caribbean to recover. Or the arrival of spring, which is the more likely option.

The other news: the kitchen remodel has begun. I don't even think I should call what we are doing a remodel—I mean, where do the thin lines between renovate, remodel, and DESTROY AND REBUILD exist? Yeah, this will be a phoenix project for sure—or at least we hope something great will arise from the ashes. It may also begin the waltz down the aisle of divorce for me and Jason. I know, I shouldn't joke about divorce (and if you are worried or hopeful, please note that we aren't getting one and never will—as my mother so thoughtfully reassured my childhood self on more than one occasion, "Your father and I will never get a divorce; we can't afford it," yes my mind is at ease now, mother), but nothing puts the topic on the conversation radar quite like disconnecting your dishwasher from the In-Sink-Erator and ending up with a vomit-type liquid that smells like decomposing intestines on your kitchen floor. Yeah, we wondered why the defunct dishwasher would spontaneously fill up with a puddle of gray, putrid fluid, and we now know where that came from. Give us a couple of months, and that accursed garbage disposal will end up where the dishwasher now resides: In Our Driveway.

I don't know why, but there's something rather comforting and nostalgic about broken appliances taking up residence in the yard—wait. I know, it reminds me of my childhood. Thanks mom and dad.