Mrs Green, In the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 2

A few devoted readers, who, it seems, have nothing better to do with their lives but lovingly devote their time to reading this vanity-induced space of complete garbage, have asked over the years when my book is coming out. The answer is always the same. I am simply incapable of writing anything longer than it would take these wonderful friends to read in the time that it takes waiting for their Wifi connection to run out on the subway platform. If I could come up with an idea for anything more substantive than what is produced here, I would have started it years ago. Instead, I keep subjecting all of us to this useless drivel. I am profoundly impressed and honoured that anybody is still reading this crap and I do promise that if I can find some profound meaning or independent, creative, and original thought that might be better than this bullshit, I will put cursor to screen and brain-fart it out. Until then, you are all stuck with this codswallop. (That paragraph was an exercise in synonyms. How many words can Dawn find that mean bullshit without her using a thesaurus. I impressed myself.)

When last we left our heroes, they were marvelling over the beauty of their newly renovated kitchen at the Southern Home. The "comes very highly recommended" contractor had come to finish off the last of his tasks and to clear out the mounds of garbage that his workers had accumulated over six months of less than linear work. To call the place a fucking mess is being very kind to fucking messes. There were empty boxes filled with construction waste strewn everywhere; piles of sawdust on the balcony from where the workers cut and shaped cabinetry; empty water bottles all over the counters; a white chalky shmutz lined the bathroom sink from where they mixed the grout; and there was dust so thick on every surface in the apartment that you could actually see track marks from where the summer insects had held their Olympics. These guys are very good at their jobs but neat and tidy they are not. The task of cleaning was set before us. Our jobs, should we choose to accept them, were to scrub, polish, and shine this place to a level that could pass Dawn's inspection. It was a herculean task but manageable.

Add to that, there was the task of rehanging and repositioning all of the artwork that had been stored. Keep reading. That comes later in this post.

The Husband took on the balconies and the windows. He is so very good at this. I would hire him out to make some extra cash off of his talents if I could figure out how to do it without it coming off like indentured servitude. After five scrubbings of the balconies and two more of the windows, we can finally view the vistas without thinking that smog has permanently descended on South Florida. His back and his knees weren't getting him anywhere quickly but there is a satisfaction that comes from a job well-done that transcends even the most gruesome pain. You buying this crap? He complained for days. It's a guy thing. I tackled the bathrooms, the floors, the kitchen cabinets and countertops. I dusted and washed and wiped and mopped for four days. Four days! I kept wondering how long I would have had to clean if we had decided to gut the bathrooms too.

We moved the kitchenware back into cupboards, measured drawers for inserts that still needed to be purchased, and searched in vain for the spice bottles that I know I stored somewhere but were now playing hide and seek. We tested the oven and microwave and stared longingly at an empty refrigerator in the hopes that it would provide sustenance. We braved Publix to restock the pantry and to repurchase the spices that I'm convinced had jumped into the Intracoastal Waterway to escape the noise and dust. We made a trip to Whole Foods, another to Walmart, a third to CVS and we still weren't even close to replenishing our reserves. The tasks seemed daunting but by working together like the synchronized machine we have become after thirty-three years of marriage, we whipped the place back into shape.

We bought the drawer inserts and a spice rack and new spices to fill it. And just when they were all properly settled and alphabetized, the old spices miraculously jumped out of their hiding places, yelled "Surprise", and expected a warm reception and some space in their new digs. Of course, they did. Anybody need some turmeric? How about cumin? I have a shitload of cumin.

And then The Husband set about the final task of rehanging the artwork. Most of it was fairly straightforward. We had left the hooks in the walls for the paintings but the three-dimensional climbers were tricky. They required a deft hand and a light touch. Have you met The Husband?

And....he dropped and broke one. 

Before the fall

After the fall

You know that sunken seasick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when your partner yells "Shit" from another room? I swear I wanted to hide in the bedroom until Chanukah.

No judgement. No anger. Just a pragmatic response to determining what the FUCK do we do now. Well, we bought the suckers from a South Florida artist so let's see if he has a remedy. He answered our panicked email within minutes. Really? Who does that? Send the afflicted climber back to him via FedEx with a prepaid return label and he would repair it. He didn't ask for money. Really? WHO DOES THAT? After spending three days trying to figure out which empty box to pack him in, The Husband did as instructed and shipped our damaged climber off to the nether regions of Miramar for surgery. He arrived that same day and within thirty-six hours was back in FedEx's hands for his return trip. Really?? WHO DOES THAT?? He is expected to be back on the wall later today. (I'll post a photo as an update.)

I know. I know. I still haven't explained the title of these posts. I promise you all that I am getting to it but really, what's a shaggy dog story without the matted and tangled shaggy hair.

Tune in tomorrow. Same Dawn time, same Dawn URL.