Oh yeah.
I would have posted that quick update a few days ago but I have been peacefully dusting sawed wood from my sunburnt mellow. The men are here nevermore. No thumping generators. No dumpster rusting in my driveway. I don’t have to get up at 7 and run to Home Depot 900 times a day. The sawing and hammering (and my internet connection blocked by someone’s half eaten hamburger resting on top of my fucking gotdamn router $#%!?!?) is all a distant memory. Only the dust of memories linger… *on every surface in every room*. For real. The A/C filter looked like a furry woodland animal. Bout scared Chuy to death.
I do miss Emet though; I cannot lie. The Monkey Man helped me brush up on my Spanish cussin’ skills! Any proper obscenity must begin with “pinche”. (Pinche orale! Peeeenchie wey!?) Emet is that rare carpentry performance artiste, a blazing renegade who will never conform to any tired-ass “measure twice/cut once” theories. No! Emet kinda measurates once, cuts the board all fucking wonky, hollers the “pinche” thing, and then measures twice while trying to understand why God plays such tricks on man. Emet’s true gift, however, is his sly ability to compensate for these imperfections by smoothing any gimongous gaps with “wood-like” SCULPTURES created entirely with ordinary caulk. The Craft is like a MIRACLE because he magically patches the crappy parts in secret. My kitchen is primarily constructed of painted bondo, but it does look pretty durned good if you squint.
N-E-WAYZ…
Decor? Restraint. Ya’ll will be glad to know I tried *rilly* hard to sling that big heavy rhinestone cape off the shoulders of my inner Liberace. But. That. Cape. Weighed. A freekin ton! So I wrassled a choke hold on the faggot instead, took his gay ass DOOOOOWN right next to our white baby grand. Restraint! Not a hint of genuine faux gilding, no jewel tones nor anything remotely Boticelli-esque. My hand was shaking… it was… but (cover your eyes the shock the shock) I chose a simple, sensible, sunny beige for the walls. (!!!) Picture fake distressed polo khaki… or fawny waves of grains… such as Metamuesil oatmeal, Martha Stewart wheat, vegan barley “almost” bread, Cap’n Crunch. Actually this particular tone of beige leans more toward… chamois buffed portabellas, sugar cookie burn, or that old-lady-spendy-champagne-Cadillac-upholstery shade. *PINCHE* beige, if you will. The new kitchen is circled with a high beadboard chair rail painted a very sweet grandmotherly cream. The love shack is a cottage, afterall. She don’t need to be smelling of bacon while wearing a falutin’ ball gown!
So night before last I made dinner to share with some friends around our new built-in banquette. There was a stove instead of the two-burner hot plate from Walmart. (!!!) The luxurious clunk of our old ice maker trying to keep up with soda swilling Femmes. Hardly any damned ice. Just like old times. There were actual real baked potatoes even! (Okay, there were also dishes in the bathroom sink because the plumber has not yet installed the sink, but still…) Chris nearly got her bedroom back to the way she likes it just so. And then with her typical kitty cat suspicion, babygrrl came tip-toeing big eyed and cautious into our newly remodeled office. After she sat surveying changes, she decided while the autumn slate does rilly look pretty kewl, solid blinds made out of beeeeg trees and heavy red drapes will be required to block this sudden “light and bright” sunny-ass boooshit. All nighter vampires do not do deep geek in the warm blossom of beige sunrooms.
And the cabinets should be here when we get back from FemCon!
I’ll post some pics then.
My dad was a carpenter and I admire any decent man who hammers for his pay.