They’re disemboweling my house tomorrow. Viscerating it. Ripping the guts out of the poor thing, and giving it a transplant. Men in khaki overalls will be here at breakfast time, and they shall expect empty cupboards and wide open doors. They’ll park a skip bin in front of my house and they’ll tear open my back door onto the frosty deck and they’ll come in with their crowbars and their hammers and they will wreak havoc on my morning.
I am paying them to do this, too.
I am paying them for the privilege of keeping my microwave and kettle and electric fry pan and toaster on a jaunty little table right next to my computer, so I can…well…keep up an endless supply of tea and toast while I write, I guess. I guess that’s a good thing, considering how much tea and toast I make while I write on a normal day (a lot).
I am paying them for the privilege of keeping my plates and bowls on a shelf in the lounge room, even after I’ve told the kids there’s a strict no-food-on-the-new-carpet rule. I’m paying them for the privilege of keeping my glassware under my bed.
I’m also paying them for doors that shut…well, for doors even…and for a stove that does all kinds of lovely things and doesn’t have gunky hard-to-clean bits. I’m paying them for pretty tiles and…oh YES…ventilation!! And shelves and nooks and new power points, and cool drawers that shut softly and places upon places to put things so they don’t clutter up my new and perfect benches.
It’s kinda worth it, really.
But, like with my first pregnancy, even though I knew at the end of that nine month perioi there’d definitely be a baby, and I knew it was coming, I’m still not ready.
How about you? Ever put a kitchen in? Got any top tips for surviving the upheaval? The new carpet ordeal is still fresh in my mind. I don’t want to do this again…can I shut my eyes and pretend it’s not happening? Help!!