Grow old along with me…

Friday, August 15 marked the 25th anniversary of my birth. In my family, birthdays are a big deal. Everyone gathers for a celebration that is complete with a meal of the birthday person’s choosing, a cake and a shower of gifts from family members. While some people feel that their birthday is a day where it’s “all about me,” I tend to take the stance that my birthday is the one day of the year where I can pretty much do whatever I want. Why? Because it’s my birthday, that’s why.

Last Friday was no exception to my hard and fast rule. On Thursday, everyone in the office received an e-mail announcing Friday as “Hawaiian shirt and flip flop day,” in celebration of the last Friday before school began. I immediately realized that while I do own flip-flops, I do not, nor will I ever, own a Hawaiian shirt. I once owned a blue tank top with white Hawaiian-like flowers on it, but that made its journey to Goodwill years ago. So, when I awoke on my birthday, I wore an incredibly un-Hawaiian outfit of jeans, a gray sweater a black blazer and black loafers. Take that, conventional wisdom!

Upon arriving to the office, I was wished a happy birthday and chastised for my lack of hideous floral attire. I was asked how old I was and immediately criticized for my incredible youth, which apparently nauseated those who work with me. One co-worker even threatened to put gum in my hair after I said, “Twenty-five feels old.” Other kinder, gentler co-workers made apple pie with crumbles on top and sticky buns. I had a big slice of pie followed by a warm sticky bun, which is completely out of character for me. Normally I’d have a big slice of nothing and a warm nothing and proceed to cut up my apple at the sink. Then, I’d hear something like, “Look at you, little Miss willpower/skinny/healthnut!” or “That’s why you look like THAT and I look like THIS.” Once, someone watched me prepare my fruit and said, “So that’s your secret!” I responded that eating fruit instead of a 300-calorie doughnut really isn’t a “secret”—I’d call it a choice instead. I could go on, but I won’t bore you with the details of being 20 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than all of your co-workers.

After spending the rest of the morning in a sugar-induced coma, Adam treated me to lunch where I ordered my old faithful, a grilled chicken salad. He gave me my birthday gift, a lovely bracelet. It was too big for my small, child-like wrists, but very beautiful and thoughtful nonetheless. Perhaps if I ate more apple pie and sticky buns this wouldn’t be a problem!

We were dismissed from work early in celebration of the last Friday before school began (we’re hard-pressed for something to celebrate around here) and I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few essentials. Upon arriving home, I placed my bags on the kitchen counter and headed over to let Rudi out of her cage. When I turned back toward the kitchen, something looked odd—out of place, even. Could it be? Like a bright, white light shining from heaven, my eyes rested upon the most beautiful sight. It was…

a NEW OVEN! I immediately began laughing hysterically (my normal reaction when I’m not sure how else to react to a situation) and began lovingly inspecting and caressing the new addition to our family. It was almost as though Adam knew how much I hated the old oven!

I picked up the phone and called Adam, who was at a football scrimmage. The conversation went something like this:

Adam: “Hello?”
Me: “Uh, hello! New oven!!”
Adam: “Oh, yeah. You noticed?”

Like somehow I would miss that the crusty bane of my existence was no longer a fixture in our home. The new oven was so gorgeous, what with its smooth, flat top, white exterior and brand name that was recognizable. My favorite part of this story is the reaction the Home Depot guy had when hauling off the old oven. Adam told me he had many questions, like:

“Whoa. Does this thing still work?”

“Your house isn’t old enough to have an oven like this in it. Where did this thing come from?”

I only wish I could have been there to provide crisp, witty responses such as:

“Unfortunately, yes. We’ve tried to kill it, bribe it and destroy it, but it refuses to die.”

“We aren’t sure Home Depot guy, but I’m pretty sure the bowels of Hell.”

The irony of all of this is that my dear husband is the one who does all the cooking at our house—my morning oatmeal and egg white omelets are as close as I get to ‘cooking.’ My main concern is how good it looks and how easy it is to clean—check and check. I rest peacefully at night knowing that the Caloric is now rusting away in a dump somewhere, the place it should have gone years ago.

After I finished admiring the oven, I headed outside for a long, relaxing run—a birthday gift to myself. It was on this run that I got to thinking about birthdays and how great this one was. Was this the best birthday ever? Nah, I thought with a smile. I have a feeling that the best is yet to be.

Country Roads

We’ve lived in our house for nearly a year, and I’ve officially been away from Cincinnati for two years. I’m often asked if I miss living in the city and if it’s been an adjustment to live in a rural area. Yes and yes is usually my answer.

Moving away from the only city you have ever known is difficult, regardless of where you are going. Going from an urban area to a rural area is even more of a transition. However, the change, as changes often are, was not as bad as I had envisioned a few years ago. I pictured terrible withdrawal symptoms and a feeling of being lost in a maze of cornfields.

Some days, it felt like I was living light years away, while others were not so bad. There was quite a bit to become accustomed to: lack of shopping, lack of entertainment options, farming equipment on the road, a new job and preparing to get married.

My true enjoyment of country living did not come until we purchased our home. After living in apartments, we were ready to have a place of our own. “The question” was one we discussed at length: Do we want to live in the country or in town? My dear husband is a farm boy and I, as you are aware, am a city girl. Strangely, neither of us had a strong opinion either way. We reserved ourselves to one of my favorite concepts: what is meant to be will find a way.

We found what was meant to be in a country setting. We did not seek out either locale with gusto, but rather the locale seemed to choose us. Much like finding the right man or a wedding dress, we knew immediately it was the one. Once that slice of heaven was ours, we moved in and began to make it our own. For me, there was much to learn. I have never, in my life, had up close encounters with sump pumps, water softeners, wells, septic and propane tanks and skunks. I can now say I have been successfully acquainted with all of the above.

One of Adam’s aunts refers to me as “Uptown Emily.” It is hard to feel like a city girl when there is a cornfield behind my house. A field of corn has become something that I love, as strange as it may seem. There is something fascinating about the way of life paired with country living. One thing Adam and I could both agree on is our love of privacy and some seclusion. In our search for homes, we found many beautiful specimens that were quickly tainted after walking into the backyard. From the back deck, the back of at least 5 homes were visible: not my idea of home. These homes were quickly crossed off the list.

I may be a city girl, but growing up there was a beautiful, lush wooded area and full-blown farm located behind my parent’s house. This provided a colorful backdrop as a child, and numerous memorable debacles along the way. The farm behind my parent’s house was complete with cattle, a pig, a golden retriever named Zero and some chickens. The cows would mosey up to the back fence to chew on the grass clippings after dad emptied the contents of the mower and before the fence was replaced, they once moseyed into the yard and ate my mother’s flowers. A chicken once became caught under the fence as well and there was a pig that chased my brother when he went exploring into the woods. As much as it may sound like I too grew up on a farm, it is important to note that a chain link fence separated us from the farm then; now there is no fence separating us from the farm and country life. We’re surrounded.

I still carry that love of seclusion with me today, and country living has begun to slowly seep into my blood. I can’t imagine being anywhere else but here. I am very social, but I secretly treasure not having an obligation to make small talk with neighbors. I can go about my business, pulling weeds and watering the flowers without a child or neighbor to pester me or discuss the weather.

If you sit quietly enough, you can begin to appreciate the nuances that accompany rural living. I never miss an opportunity to stare up at the sky each night, taking in every star I can see, and you really can see them all. I love to sit on the back deck and take in the sounds of silence, sometimes accompanied by a lone goat or horse sound. I have no choice but to slow down and take my time, something I rarely do in my day-to-day existence. I often joke about living in the country, but the truth is that deep down I have fallen in love.

Over time, I have begun to embrace the country by taking baby steps. I planted a vegetable garden, I spend hours mowing the lawn and I have gotten over the shock of not having sidewalks when I take the dog for a walk.

There are still days I sorely miss the access to shopping and having numerous dining options, that I cannot deny. These necessities slowly fade away over time, and if times become desperate, they are only a 45-minute drive away. Now, if only we could find a way to grow our own gasoline…

I'm the worst

In case you are wondering, oh 5 people who read my blog, I have not given up nor have I disappeared into thin air. I’m still here, chasing away skunks and raging against the dog hair machine known as Rudi.

I have, however, been incredibly busy. My social butterfly husband and I were invited to nine, yes NINE, weddings this summer. Six of the nine were held in consecutive weekends and three of those consecutive weeks involved Adam wearing a tuxedo in the bridal party. There has not been much spare time for blog writing nor toilet cleaning. We have two more weddings in August and then we are finished until next summer’s bonanza begins in June. I welcome this hiatus with open arms.

Aside from spending large quantities of cash on tuxedo rentals, wedding gifts and hotel rooms, I have managed to conquer a project close to my heart. It seems to be close to my now aching lower back, too. It’s a little thing I like to call Cabinet Project ’08. This project, like many we have tackled in the past year, was much more complicated in reality than in concept. I’m on the cusp of reaching the light at the end of the tunnel, though I will admit it was a long and painful journey to the tunnel’s end.

As I colorfully described in a previous post, the past year has entailed a mental battle on my love/hate relationship with our oak kitchen cabinets. They were high quality, but they simply were not my style. I’m not a “really grainy late 80’s early 90’s oak kitchen cabinets and white laminate countertops” kind of girl. I might live in the country, but the country does not live in my house. It would probably smell like skunks if it did. I’m fairly picky and frankly quite choosy, and the cabinets weren’t cutting it for me. After living in their presence for a year, it was time to say goodbye. I submitted my 5 vacation days and began purchasing the necessary supplies to create my dreamy new kitchen.

The project began to rear its difficult head when I started Sunday evening with removing all of the doors. Seems easy, simple even. Then, I began counting and realized that our kitchen has 29 doors and 11 drawers. It took roughly 2 hours to remove every door, each door hinge and every handle. I had a serious talk with my hands afterwards, and they decided not to fall into the dark depths of carpel tunnel.

While I lugged each of the doors into the garage for a proper sanding, priming and some cussing, Adam spent some good bonding time with the air nailer and miter saw to add new trim to the tops and bottoms, affix panels of bead board to the sides and finish out the cabinet bottoms with sheets of oak. We spent roughly 4 days time on this portion of the project before moving on to door painting (3 coats on each side) and later to painting the cabinet boxes (2 coats of paint, 3 coats of polyurethane). I’m pretty sure I’ve never worked this hard on anything in my life. I can’t think of an occasion where I willingly worked 10 hour days for 7 days straight to achieve a goal.

Though it’s only been a few weeks since we completed our large undertaking, I’ve already begun to forget what the cabinets looked like before. I sometimes catch myself staring lovingly at the “new” cabinets, taking in their non-oak color.

Fast forward 3 weeks, and we’re just now getting around to putting the cabinet doors and drawer fronts on, after a slight debacle with the hinges. But imagine my frustration when I came the following realization: the freshly painted cabinets are the same color as the walls in our large kitchen/dining/living combo room. You know, the one that is over 400 square feet and we once referred to as “the room that will be a pain in the butt to paint someday.” One great project deserves another, right?