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Several of you asked where my oven is, from looking at the pictures below. Actually, I just got rid of it. Jerked the whole thing out. I found that to be a really effective way to eliminate the pressure of cooking dinner each night.
I'm kidding, y'all. The oven is safe and sound, overly used and abused and hanging out with his partner the microwave just to the right of the stove top:
My kitchen remodel has been mostly finished for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't bring myself to take a picture of the whole thing until I managed to get my kitchen spotlessly clean.
That's when I remembered: my kitchen is never spotlessly clean. So I just hoisted the random stacks of things to another room and made it look like we're actually, you know, orderly.
I am incredibly relieved this process is over. A kitchen remodel is a funny thing--it's extremely stressful, but you feel terribly guilty for complaining about. There's sort of the whole I'm-getting-a-new-kitchen-so-I-should-keep-my-mouth-shut complex. But the dust! And the disorder! And the exposed wires! It's enough to send a girl over the edge. I actually called Melanie in the middle of our ordeal to apologize for not being sympathetic enough when she went through hers a few months ago.
Anyway, it's done, and this post will probably provide more detail than you ever wanted to know about the whole thing. I learned some things--good and bad--and many of you have written to say you're thinking about a kitchen remodel yourselves. So here we go.
First, this is the only "before" picture I have. Notice all the dark trim, the chunky fluorescent lighting, and the hanging cabinet that breaks up the room:
Below is the "after". We took down that cabinet and changed the fluorescent lighting to recessed cans. I really resisted that lighting change, mainly because it was expensive and I didn't think it would be worth the money. Hubs insisted, and I'm so glad he did--the new lighting is one of my favorite parts. And the removed cabinet opens the space so much. No more bumping our heads when we try to talk to each other!
Below is a shot from the other end of the room. I think one of the most dramatic (and cheapest) changes we made was painting all that old brown 80's trim (baseboards, door frames, etc.) white. It really updated things. Also, you can see our new tile floors, laid at a diagonal (which I love) with medium grout (which I regret. I wish I'd gone with my initial urge to use black grout.)
Another shot of the eating area, and my handy-dandy buffet and desk. This is where all the blogging magic mediocrity happens. Normally that buffet is piled high with lunch money, permission slips, birthday invitations and other suck-the-life-right-out-of-you paperwork.
Below is our eating area, which now feels much more open with the overhead cabinet gone. I made the curtains; they were such a ridiculously easy bargain I'm going to devote a whole Works-For-Me Wednesday post to them later:
Here is a close-up of the countertop. It's quartz, and supposedly it's the most durable countertop material known to all of mankind. Which means it might--MIGHT--stand a chance in this family. It's much lower maintenance than granite and you can even chop right on it.
I didn't plan to get a stainless steel sink--it still wouldn't be my first choice. But it came free as part of a special offer with our countertops, and when you're hemorrhaging money remodeling your kitchen, you'll take anything they offer you for free. The cabinetry is not new; it was the only thing in the kitchen that stayed. We're actually planning to refinish it this spring but at the moment I am fresh out of elbow grease.
I have wanted a glass-top stove for as long as I can remember. It is SO easy to clean. You can get a good look at the backsplash here, too. It's tumbled marble, done in a subway tile pattern. Eventually, I'll hang something decorative over the stove, but I cannot--CANNOT--bring myself to make another decision about this kitchen, no matter how small.
That's it. Overall, I'm pleased at how it turned out. Mostly, I'm just pleased it's finished.
Adam's 4th-grade class has been studying life at the turn-of-the-century, in honor of Oklahoma's centennial this year. As part of this, they're taking a field trip to an old one-room schoolhouse. We're supposed to pack him an "authentic" lunch--no juice boxes, no pastic, no aluminum foil.
I was digging in the cabinets yesterday, wondering aloud what I could fix for him.
"Well you should remember, Mom," he said. "You were there in 1910."
"HOW OLD DO YOU THINK I AM?" I shrieked, turning around to face him.
That boy was grinning at me, one side of mouth tilted up in a smirk. "Just messin' with you, Mom."
You know what? Having a kid who will bust your chops now and then is a really, really good thing.
So, that title was just a bit over-stated. But still, it's time to tell you my most dramatic birth story, and I might as well milk the drama for all it's worth.
Nine years ago, Hubs and I were living in downtown Chicago with our then 17-month-old Adam. I was hugely pregnant with our second son, Stephen.
(By the way, let me just stop to tell you that until you have navigated a Chicago city bus with a toddler in one arm, a folded stroller in another, and a giant belly poking out front, then you have not yet lived, my friends. Those were some good, ableit wobbly-footed, times.)
It was Thanksgiving weekend, and all of our friends--ALL of them--were out of town. We, of course, had no family living nearby, because our family has the good sense to stay Down South, where God clearly intended people to live. Even though I was 36 weeks pregnant, we didn't worry too much about the lack of back-up, because I still had four weeks to go, right?
Unfortunately, I did not know Gestational Rule Number 487: the number of friends you have nearby is inversely proportionate to the likelihood that you're going to start having contractions five minutes apart.
And so it was, on that cold November night in 1998 that I awakened at 3 am with the familiar tightening in my belly that came and went, came and went all too regularly. I got up, dressed between contractions, and gently nudged Hubs awake. Just like it happens in the movies, I whispered, "It's time."
If I was about to give birth to a preemie, I did not have the mental energy to deal with a 17-month-old toddler in a hospital room at 3 a.m (remember, everyone we knew was out of town. There was no one to call to come and watch Adam.) I informed Hubs I'd be going to the hospital alone.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
But I explained my reasoning and I reminded him that the hospital was only six blocks away. If it had been daytime, I would have walked. I could take a cab directly from our high-rise to the ER entrance. My mind was made up, and Hubs remembered quickly that you do not argue with a woman in labor, though he was still as horrified and scared as I'd ever seen him.
We locked Adam in the apartment, dashed downstairs and Hubs flagged a cab. He helped me in and kissed me, and cab door slammed shut.
"St. Josph's emergency room," I told the driver. He turned to look at me in dismay.
"Are you about to have a baby in this cab?" he asked, glancing at my huge belly.
"I hope not," I muttered, and as he sped away, I leaned my head back against the dark vinyl seat. I closed my eyes and thought about the baby dancing in my tummy, trying to come out just a little too soon. I thought about my husband, who was surely out of his mind with worry. And I thought about the fact that I was alone, in labor, in a taxi, at 3 am, in downtown Chicago.
This boy better not give me any trouble when he's a teenager, I thought to myself.
I hate to disappoint, but the drama basically ends here. The two-minute drive to the ER was uneventful (though the cabbie still expected me to pay; you would think he'd consider that one a freebie, wouldn't you?). I checked in, labor was confirmed, and Hubs miraculously remembered one last friend we could call to help out. He joined me at the hospital around 7 am; Stephen was born healthy and pink just after lunch.
To this day, Stephen doesn't enter a room--he explodes into it. Clearly, he knows how to make an entrance.
Happy birthday, my boy. I'm so proud of you I could pop.
May we all just pause for a moment to revel in the brownie points I'm garnering with Hubs by doing a post on this topic? Tax deductions are my man's love language.
Thirteen years of marriage to my clever husband have taught me that garage sales are a colossal waste of energy and money. A few years ago, we started not only giving away unneeded items to a charity, but we began documenting our items very carefully--keeping a detailed list of what we gave, and even a photograph of each batch before we sent it off.
That may sound like a lot of work (it's not, compared to a garage sale), but the benefits have been surprising. The dollar amount the law allows you to claim each unwanted item for is WAY more than you could get for it at a garage sale.
That last sentence is the clunkiest thing I've ever written. This is what happens when I try to discuss anything remotely math-related. You know what I mean. (For more info, see this software--it's what we use to track it all. You'll be blown away by the value of your stuff, seriously.)
Basically, my point is that donating items to charity (instead of selling them in garage sales) is a major win/win: the charity gets the benefit of your items and you get a fantastic financial benefit. In fact, you might save just enough to...oh, I don't know...pay for a hot pink Dell laptop for Christmas?
If you'd like to play along with WFMW this week, check out the guidelines here first. Then leave your link below!
Powered by... Mister Linky's Magical Widgets.
...but this morning, there was also this:
Relax girls, it's a toy. But for the first 1.8 seconds I saw it, I didn't realize that, and my heart pounded so far out of my chest that it should count for a cardio workout.
Episodes like this could be avoided if I were a better pre-laundry pocket checker. But DO YOU KNOW how scary it is to stick your hand blindly into the pocket of jeans worn three days ago by a six-year-old boy? It's like those Discovery Channel expeditions where someone has to be the first to go down into the unmapped cave, wondering whether they'll be met by some mythic prehistoric beast.
Laundry requires courage, my friends. Courage.
I'm pulling for Miley Cyrus. I really am.
(And if you don't know who Miley Cyrus is, follow the sound of the screaming 'tweens. For where two or more 'tweens are gathered, there is likely a Hannah Montana t-shirt or poster in the midst of them.)
Her show on the Disney channel is beloved of millions, and it's a good show--funny and clean and smart. My boys watch it faithfully, and I even watch it with them sometimes. I don't begrudge them clean TV--there's little enough of it.
When I heard that Miley and her dad were being interviewed by Oprah last week, I set the DVR. I wanted to see for myself if this squeaky-clean teen was the real deal. Would she be as down-to-earth as I'd hoped? Was her family as close-knit as I'd heard? Because, I have to admit, I'm skeptical that it's possible at all for any kid--no matter how grounded she is--to emerge from that lifestyle as a functional adult. It's a very important part of a child's emotional upbringing to learn that they are important, but they are not the center of the universe. How do you teach that to a 14 year old whose face appears on bed sheets and spiral notebooks?
Anyway, I watched the show, and Miley seemed fairly grounded, though I'll admit I was watching like a hawk for red flags. When her dad was interviewed, he spoke of their tight family unit and their faith, but he also spoke of how he "wants to be her best friend."
NO, Billy Ray, please don't be her best friend. Leave that to other 9th-grade girls. YOU be the guy that locks her little butt in her bedroom if she so much as looks at a nightclub. Please.
I desperately want this story to have a happy ending. I want for Miley Cyrus to be a 25- or 30-year-old woman someday with a healthy life, career and family. I hope she never sees the inside of a jail cell and that she never finds out what cocaine even looks like. I hope she's paying close attention to Lindsey and Britney and learning--really learning--from their mistakes. I hope her parents are watching her, very closely, and I hope they have courage to love her in the way that says "I will always do what's best for you."
I hope all this for her sake, but for the sake of all the kids watching her. And, I'll admit, I hope all this with a healthy dose skepticism, having seen what so often happens to child stars.
What do you think?
...how many of you went shopping at an ungodly hour on Friday morning? Before this year, I'd only done it once, and I swore that I'd never do it again.
Until, that is, I saw the sale flyers. Four a.m. doorbusters! 75% off! These words speak to me. Especially when two of the items I was already planning to buy this season were on sale to a degree so spectacular I couldn't not go.
And so, Friday at 4:30 am, my alarm went off. I hit snooze twice and still managed to be out the door by 4:50, which should tell you a little about how I looked.
First stop was Wal Mart, and there weren't quite as many cars outside as I expected. I stood in the Wal Mart parking lot for a moment, pondering our nation's economic prosperity, and whether the slow retail environment might force the Federal Reserve Board to lower interest rates.
Actually, no. I believe my exact thoughts were something like, "Dang, it's cold."
Inside, the store was moderately crowded but courteous--I saw no pushing or arguing or body-slamming over the Hokey Pokey Elmo.
I did, however, see a sight that still has me scratching my head. While I was there wearing a thick sweatshirt thrown over my pajama top, there were many women dressed to the hilt. High-heeled boots, chunky jewelry, bright red sweaters. At five in the morning. "Show off," I muttered, as I shuffled past. Okay, not really, but I thought it. Evidently I am not an overflowing fount of Jesus' love before the sun comes up.
Next stop was...well, I can't tell you, because my brother reads this blog, and if I say where I went, he might guess what he's getting. But again, I scored a fantastic bargain in an surprisingly non-crowded store.
My third and final stop was where the real business was taking place. Between 5 am and noon, JoAnn's had their flannel for 99 cents a yard. It's regularly $5-$6 a yard. For those of you who don't sew, you may not know how craft lovers are about their fabric bargains. It's a little like getting between a momma bear and her cubs. Picture a bunch of bleary-eyed seamstresses heaping bolts and bolts of flannel into their carts, hardly stopping to examine them first. The funny part came as we all stood in line, eyeing each other's carts, casting irritated glances at our fellow shoppers who HAD THE NERVE to load their basket with twenty bolts of fabric. They should have been much more restrained, like me, who only had EIGHTEEN.
So cutting were the glances that when I came back home and crawled back into bed (oh yes I did), I fell into a deep sleep in which I dreamed that a little old lady and I were in an all-out fight, whacking at each other with fabric bolts like they were light sabres.
Did I mention that I bought enough flannel to make 22 pajama bottoms?
TWENTY-TWO.
Can you even begin to imagine why any family would need 22 new pairs of pajamas? Neither can I. But when the bargains call, I answer, even when it makes no sense. I guess I'll just have to insist that this family sleep a whole lot in 2008.
What about you? I'd be interested to hear how many of you braved the crowds and cold to do business on Black Friday. Just for fun, fill in the poll below.
If only decorating my house were as easy as changing a blog header, I'd be ahead of the game right now. My snazzy new Christmas design was done, of course, by the super-talented Jules of Everyday Design. Thanks, Jules!
Now if only I had a mouse that could point-click-drag my children to put the Christmas tree up the right way (instead of, you know, sword-fighting with the branches). Then I could right-click and the stockings would just fly into place. And control-alt-delete would clean the whole mess up on New Year's Day.
I believe that would be a fine use of technology.
Operation Christmas Child video -- Michael W. Smith
Hello My Name Is -- This Ain't New York
Rough Around the Edges -- Oh My Stinkin' Heck
I've Always Suspected God Appreciates a Good Cheetah Print -- BigMama
So, Why Are There Pictures Of Your Kid On the Internet -- Blog Segullah (especially interesting for those of you with kids old enough to read)
Santas Warned "Ho Ho Ho" Offensive to Women -- Yahoo! (via Mopsy)
