Can I borrow your backscratcher?

Do you ever have a nagging itch in the center of your back, just out of the reach of your hand? It’s enough to drive you crazy. You claw at your back desperately with your hands, nearly pulling your arm out the socket in an attempt to bring your nails close enough for relief, only to fuel the fires of frustration. You twist and turn your back, rub it against the back of your chair or desperately grasp for a pen just to relieve yourself of the annoyance. Eventually, it finds its long-awaited scratch or just goes away out of its own accord.

But what if it can’t be scratched? What is a person to do when the itch’s nagging presence turns into obsession, and you begin taking desperate measures for some sanity? You begin slathering with pricy lotions and creams, picking up various tools hoping they chase your aggravation away. Something that seemingly started so innocently has graduated into an ordeal.

People of the world: meet my itch. It’s name is Oak Kitchen Cabinets. The itch began in August, when we moved into our house. It was like the cabinets were taunting me, what with their deep wood grain and intense love for the 90’s and brass hardware. Sure, they match the rest of the house with its oak trim and beautiful 6-panel solid doors, but I can’t help but feel like they’re trapped in a time warp. Back in the day, I’m sure they loved Beverly Hills 90210, New Kids on the Block and Pound Puppies. I loved those things too, cabinets! Really, they were great. But, I’ve moved on since then and changed my preference while you still reminisce about wearing a side pony tail and those shirts that changed color with the heat of your body.

Deep down, I am my father’s daughter. I have a great appreciation for beautiful, solid wood, and am intrigued by the story an old piece of furniture has to tell. I have many memories of the hours my dad spent stripping layers of paint from antique furniture in our garage, bringing out the beautiful grain in old pieces of history that made our house a home. He just has that knack for seeing through the layers of paint and grime to the potential that lies underneath.

Now, with that being said, I have respectfully come to the conclusion that there is no potential to be discovered underneath the layers of paint I am prepared to slap upon my oak cabinets. Part of me appreciates their beauty and feels fortunate to have such numerous and well-constructed real wood cabinetry in my home. I know others aren’t as lucky and would consider killing for cabinets like mine. But, I’m a greedy little homeowner.

I have a tendency to get an idea and without careful planning or thought, dive right into the project without looking back. Recent stints with projects gone awry and the process of repainting the freshly painted have made me a bit skittish. This project is different. I have spent months poring over design websites, photos, paint swatches and step-by-step instructions on numerous websites. Although I feel I am prepared for the mess and mountains of work ahead, the itch has begun to interrogate me.

For an itch, it sure does ask a lot of questions. Sooo, have you decided on a theme for this kitchen of yours? English Cottage? French Country? Tuscan? Roosters are nice, but how many roosters is too many roosters? What if you pick the wrong shade of white? Maybe white is too “white.” Perhaps ivory or butter cream would be better. The rest of the house is oak, maybe you should just keep it the way it is, that way everything will match. What if you mess it up and spend the rest of your life hating it and yourself for what you’ve done?

Allow me to answer the incessant questioning churning through my head. My aim is for a hint of French Country and Tuscan, if that is possible. The perfect number of roosters in a kitchen is somewhere between one and three. Four is pushing your luck. I don’t plan on picking the wrong shade of white (who does?) but white IS too white when everything else is adorned in oak. Ivory or butter cream would be perfect, topped with a coat of deep brown glaze. If I mess it up and hate it, I’ll just have to spend the remainder of my days living with my horrible decision, now won’t I??

When we moved in, I hated the cabinets. Wait a year, I told myself—then do something with them. Maybe they will grow on you, I chimed hopefully. Nothing has grown, except my disdain. In one month, I will dedicate an entire week of my life to this project. My seven vacation days have been approved; it is just a matter of time before the journey to painted cabinets begins.

I feel like embarking on this cabinet painting project is like preparing for major surgery. I’m nervous, I don’t know what to expect but I know there will be some pain involved. I keep telling myself things like, “You are ready for this! Think of all the research and time you have invested!” and “Think how great they will look when you’re done!” and “Well, you’re using up 7 freaking vacation days for this little project of yours, so you’d better know what you’re doing and be ready, because so help me I will be really upset with you if you screw this one up.”

I also anticipate that painting the cabinets will only intensify my deep-seeded hatred for the oven, horrible white laminate countertops and the terrible fluorescent light fixture, none of which do anything for the appeal of food. Almost everything I eat has dog hair on it anyway, so the idea of it being appealing is probably a moot point.

On an unrelated topic, I discovered one of the downsides of living in the country last week. A large skunk was hit by a car and its dead carcass was located right at the end of our driveway. The wind blew its lifetime supply of stink into the house for a day before I just couldn’t take it anymore. I held my breath, swallowed my instinct to be grossed out, grabbed a board, and headed down the driveway. Smell and fly population intensifying as I drew closer, I told myself to pretend I was playing shuffleboard. I took my stance, looked both ways across the street and pushed that rotting carcass across the road with a few strokes of my scrap wood. It still stinks, but at least I don’t have to stare at the turkey buzzard-picked rotting flesh every time I pull out of the driveway.

Why won't you die?

Have you ever noticed that the things that go wrong or break in your house are never the ones that you WANT to break or die? The important and necessary things seem to go haywire while the old, crusty and annoying things are cockroaches, somehow managing to live for a week without their heads, dying only from lack of water. It’s true, look it up.

I hate, with a passion, my oven. It is old, crusty, and really, just plain ugly. Aesthetically, it stands out like a sore thumb with its bisque and black color scheme among the white appliances. Its grease-gathering pans were probably black to begin with, but are now permanently crusted with singed food particles from 1992-present. Cleaning them is futile and has been attempted, unsuccessfully.

Right out of the gate, the oven and I got off to a bad start for a petty reason. It has a stupid name--Caloric. Much like those beloved automobiles someone decided to name Yugo, Gremlin and Lancer, the terrible name is doing nothing for its already terrible image. Is it supposed to be the verb form of the word “calorie?”

“Hey, would you like a brownie, still warm from the oven?”

“No thanks, I’m watching my Caloric intake.”

“I think you just offended my oven.”

Also the word “Caloric” is a little to close for comfort to the term “Colonic.” I see very bad things on the horizon when we start confusing oven brands for the process of cleaning out your colon with water. Then, there's the fact that it claims to be a part of the "Prestige Series," which I can only surmise is the oven's attempt at sarcasm.

Then, there is the fact that it is ugly and does not match anything. Have I mentioned how ugly it is? It’s a creamy-cool mix of bisque and black and has this weird clear and striped motif going on where the knobs are located. There’s a splash of what is supposed to look like stainless steel on top, which really accents the hand-cranked timer that probably stopped working in 2001, the year I graduated from high school.

As if that wasn’t enough, it’s also missing a rack. If the oven were a person, that would be the equivalent of missing a front tooth. Oh, and if you’d like to turn on the light to see how well your cookies are rising without opening the door to let out the heat encased inside, you can just forget it. Now you’re asking for more than the Caloric is willing to supply, you greedy proprietor of baked goods! Lights and their coordinating outside switches are for sissies! When I was your age, we didn’t have ovens with lights and somehow I turned out all right, didn’t I?

But wait, there’s more! This, my dear reader, is what I like to call the pies de resistance--- the pot drawer. You know that drawer under the oven to store items that previously cluttered your overstuffed cabinets, providing both convenience and storage? Behold the Caloric’s drawer! It’s a drip tray with crumbs and a French fry from the Stone Age! Also, it’s incredibly embarrassing. That is why we always keep it in the closed position.

Why, you ask, have I not cleaned this thing out since moving in to our home almost a year ago? Me, the anal cleaner who requires objects to stay in their proper places? It’s a little thing I like to call defiant refusal. In my mind, not cleaning or appreciating the oven might make it give up sooner. I wipe off the top, but that is about it. Sure, you are good enough to cook my food, but you don’t deserve to be cleaned or appreciated in any other way. This, oven, is why you should just give up, pack up your crumb drawer and hit the road. Don’t let the door hit you on your heating elements on the way out.

I’ve even tried to make the oven look better, or even give it some sort of semblance of fitting in with everything else. My placement of pretty salt and pepper shakers and a stainless steel spoon rest would tie it in with everything else, I said to myself. You can put a nice suit on a bum, but he’s still a bum.

I’ve tried to make a case for investing in a new oven, but it’s hard to argue my case when the thing works so darn well. The Caloric quickly cooks my oatmeal for me every morning without fail. Each of its four completely functional burners boils water quickly, it cooks things evenly and the door even closes completely. Other than my refusal to clean the infamous drawer of crumbs, it’s a perfectly operating hideously ugly oven.

I’m thinking perhaps we could work out a barter system. I’ll see your crumb-infested drawer and trade you for a one-way ticket to anywhere in the world. Where do you want to go? Hawaii? Belize? The U.S. Virgin Islands? Consider it done. Heck, I’ll even buy you two seats because you obviously aren’t thin enough to fit in one. Perhaps a closer look at your own Calorics is a good idea. Desperation, thy name is unfair trade.

The other day, Adam and I were talking about something food-related and he said, “If we ever get a new oven…” I suddenly became light headed and almost fainted on the dog. IF?!? IF we decide to replace that THING living in the kitchen that has far outstayed its welcome in our otherwise nice and orderly home? I think an attitude adjustment is in order, Mister.

A simple Google search has revealed that the Caloric brand is still in existence, creating sturdy, moderately priced ovens for the great people of the world who have no style sense. The brand was purchased by Amana some time ago, but still operates under its same awesome name. It’s a relief to know that when Caloric sold out to The Man, they kept true to themselves and negotiated the ability to keep their tried and true name trusted probably by landlords and renters everywhere and whoever built our house in 1992.

As I write this, I just know the Caloric and our 16 year-old water heater are working out a suicide pact to die simultaneously to really stick it to me. Then, at the last minute, the oven will back out, change its mind, and live for another 10 years in crumb-filled bliss. As long as 9 of those years are in a landfill, that’s fine by me.

Two Hydrogens, one Oxygen

On Friday, we received a significant amount of rain in a very short period, leaving most of the area with standing water. Our basement was no exception. Water poured through our basement windows that day, leaving the carpet-covered floor with standing water. I turned up the dehumidifier, hoping it would solve the problem, but quickly realized it was to no avail when the musty smell of stagnant water permeated my nostrils yesterday. As Adam and were on our hands and knees last night ripping up the waterlogged indoor /outdoor carpet, it struck me how just a little bit of water could cause so much stink and damage.

Water is a truly amazing thing. Of the four elements in existence, water seems to be the one with the most significantly overriding “two-faced” qualities. Certainly, fire can be just as, if not more, destructive. But water? Water can destroy things in an instant, yet it also creates such poignant, beautiful memories in our lives. Water knows how to make a decision. It cannot be stopped.

Without water, your body could only survive a few days—a week would be considered miraculous. Without food, you could sustain yourself for about a month. Heck, you can even live without air for a full 3 minutes. I would not suggest testing that, though.

At least half of your body is—you guessed it—water. Your brain alone is 70% H20. You need water for your body to function, to clean you and to revive you after a hot day where it’s lost from your pores as sweat. There is no cost to acquire water and with the touch of your hand, it flows from faucets in your home. Yet, we pay money to buy water pre-packaged in bottles that we are now told cannot be reused. It has been tucked neatly away in most everything you eat, absorbed into your body without notice.

Think of all the memories you have that involve water. The swimming lessons you took as a child, learning strokes and spending days on end at the local pool with your friends in the hot summer sun. You jumped off the diving board in a cannonball, competing over who had the biggest splash. You paid a visit to the salty ocean and lazily snoozed on the beach to the calming sounds of waves lapping on the sandy shore. You grabbed the garden hose to fill up your squirt gun in the midst of a water fight with your brother. You filled balloons with H20 to drop on an unsuspecting victim. Water cooled you down after a hot summer day, and froze on the sidewalk you slipped on that winter morning. Your heart raced as your car began to slide on the black ice covering the roadway, as you pumped your breaks and tried to recall whether you were supposed to turn into or out of the ensuing skid.

Water cleanses you each day, breathing new life and moisture into your once dirty skin. It washes away your troubles and cares for just a moment before you return to the hustle and bustle of your busy life. It has no calories, no preservatives, no sugar, no cholesterol, no fat, no nothing. It flies swiftly down the drain, is treated by the city and comes right back to you as quickly as it left. It sits patiently in your toilet bowl, waiting for you each day without question.

Water falls from the sky, damaging all it touches in excess or creating a significant deficit in its non-existence. Without it, meteorology and the art of prediction would be a dying art. The art of fire fighting would be nearly futile.

Water giveth, and then it taketh away. It kills, scares, injures and maims many, all while sustaining so many more. It strikes fear into our hearts, which ironically are 75% water. Without precaution, education or practice within it, serious consequences ensue. It’s as beautiful and peaceful as it is ugly and horrendous.

Water sits stagnant, a breeding ground for mosquitoes in your backyard and seeps into your basement, ruining the most prized of your possessions. Left unattended, it grows into hairy mold on the rafters. Water probably choked you once, scared you more times that you can count, yet you never dream of ending your torrid love affair. As much as water hurts you, irritates you or even destroys you, you still come back for more.

Think about all of this the next time you go to a restaurant and when prompted for what you would like to drink, you say, “I’ll just have water.”

What I've learned...so far

August will mark 1 year of home ownership for Adam & I. I used to think I knew a lot--sometimes I even thought I knew everything. I'm slowing learning I don't. Owning a house has showed me that I know a whole bunch of jack squat. Most days I feel that someone has pressed fast forward on our capacity for learning how to do things, and most of them seem to be the hard way. So, in no particular order, here is the wisdom I am prepared to dispense:

• One year in home ownership is the equivalent of 1 month in real time. I now know how people can live in the same house all their adult lives, as I'm pretty sure someone turned on the hyperspeed last year and I haven't figure out how it slow it down.
• Something is always dirty and needs your attention. Especially if you just cleaned it last week.
• You are never finished. Ever. Start one project, get distracted by another, add another to the pile and before you know it your bathroom is down to the studs and there's a hole in the ceiling.
• Something will always go wrong. Things won't go nearly as smoothly in real life as they do in that head of yours. Oh, and the thing you think is easy is at least 5 times harder than it looks.
• People do weird things. Laminate flooring screwed into the wall for decoration, a dog themed bathroom and a screen door in the basement? Yes, and they all seemed like a good idea to someone.
• Paint is the world's greatest invention. It's cheap, easy to apply and it changes everything. But, when you pick the wrong color you'll have to start over again and crying is very possible.
• Dogs make it dirtier. If it doesn't shed all over the house, it will invariably poop or barf in the house and eat things you love. It's inevitable, and completely unavoidable so don't even argue with me.
• Spackle and caulk fix everything. Seriously, they do.
• You're going to be sore tomorrow. Whatever your project is, chances are you are moving in weird ways that you don't during the week when you're sitting at your desk. Your body will be pissed at you.
• There's no I in team. As much as I think I know about the house, Adam always knows more or has thought of something that never occured to me.
• Lots of Benjamins are necessary. $30 here, $250 there and before you know it, you need a home equity loan.
• Patience and TV breaks and needed for sanity purposes. 'Nuff said.
• Cat pee should be a weapon of mass destruction. It's foul, disgusting and soaks into everything it touches. It's impossible to get rid of and makes your throat burns. If it's touched that thing, you need to throw that thing away and THEN the smell will be gone.

I'm sure I know more, but the paint fumes have caused me to forget everything else. Have I convinced you to never own a home?

Tired, sweaty and burnt

While Adam was off on his adventure to the Appalacian Mountains, I took it upon myself to give myself jobs and tasks to complete. Why would myself do that to myself? I haven't any idea.

First, I assigned myself to mow the backyard. The grass was long and dog poop was a plenty. After hitting the fence a few times and realizing that the mower automatically shuts off when you get up from the seat (something about safety??) the process went somewhat well. Then, I ordered myself to clear the flower bed in the backyard that was overgrown with weeds, add top soil and plant a vegetable garden of tomatoes, onions, hot peppers and something that is either okra or green peppers.

After permitting myself a short break for H2O, I commanded myself to apply deck wash to the tired and thirsty deck, followed by applying 2 gallons worth of deck stain/sealer on the railings alone. Then, I told myself to shut up because I was tired and needed a break. Also, I was angry at myself for failing to put adequate sunscreen on my back, which was now really red and looked like I was wearing a pale, skin colored sports bra. Ugh.

After an adequate night's sleep, I gave in to myself and finished staining the deck, which took a total of 4 gallons to complete. The deck, much like a whiny and thirsty/hungry child wasn't satisfied with one coat and required a second to achieve the "not thirsty and warped wood" look. I'm happy with the results, though my back isn't happy that I strained it by being hunched over for hours to paint the deck by hand with a small brush. Did I mention I like doing things the hard way? But hey, having a well-moisturized wood surface to sit on and enjoy the blazing hot summer weather is totally worth it. We have to sit directly on the deck though, because we don't have any furniture to go on the deck. I'm told I need to either lower my standards or my price range because a $1,200 patio set is a bit on the "excessive side." Sigh.

Wonder what potentially painful and back-breaking job myself will think up next?