|Get down. Get funky.|
“We’ll take it.” My husband said. We were both in such a hurry to get out of our temporary apartment; we completely ignored all of those rose-colored warning signs. (And that slight hint of cat urine.)
During those first few months, we hired painting contractors, carpet installers, counter top installers and the fire department to put out the flames on our smoking wallets. Three years later we had our mustard-colored broom closet (aka master bathroom) demolished and rebuilt while we slept in the same room with the children for over a month. A year after that, my husband’s foot fell through the floor of our balcony. Twenty thousand dollars later, it was rebuilt with a patio cover to protect it from our cold and wet winters. Fortunately the bank promised to return our arms and legs once the loan was paid off.
Each project was a test in our own relationship, from fights over linoleum floors to the threat of a legal battle with a pilfering contractor. But with each completed room, we were able to look at our house with some amount of pride.
That was, until we looked at our kitchen. Dark blue walls and darker wood paneling made the room look like a cave. So, last month, we rolled up our sleeves, grabbed the paint rollers and made the decision to paint every square inch. The walls were given four coats paint and the dark brown cabinets received six coats to make them white. It was major ‘sweat equity’.
It was nearly my last straw.
On the day we evacuated our cabinets and piled up the food and cookware in the middle of the kitchen, my eye began to twitch. It was a small twitch and one I didn’t notice until I looked in the mirror. But it was there, *twitch*, dancing right under my eye. *twitch*
The week continued with more painting and more cooking from storage boxes. The twitch didn’t go away. Another week came and went, and the twitch was still there. I was almost ready to call the doctor and get a Botox injection to relax that muscle when suddenly it stopped. I realized that it was no coincidence it stopped twitching on the day we put our kitchen supplies back into the cabinets.
I think it was a sign. That twitch was a little ticking time bomb ready to explode the next time we start remodeling a room. I haven’t discussed this with my husband yet, but I think it would be best if I go on vacation before he picks up a paintbrush.
Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer. She is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband and stellar children. You can read about her writing adventures at www.jcaddell.wordpress.com.
Image credit: thekitchendesigner.org