Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

And this is what my life has become

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I swore I wouldn’t write another post about the renovation, and yet it consumes me, dear reader.  My life is swallowed by the renovation, and the working around the contractor’s schedule, and the I need to choose a light fixture thinking that I have right now.  I’m even boring myself.  Be thankful you don’t need to enter into boring conversation with me on a daily basis – or if you do, and you’re reading this, I’m sorry for being so boring. 

Yesterday the bathroom was completely gutted – save for the toilet, a relief since I had a mid-level worry that someone would spontaneously contract a virulent stomach flu and would have to be herded, barfing, down the carpeted stairs to the basement bathroom, not that we have even had the stomach flu for the longest time (knock knock knocking on the hardwood floor) – the rock was chiseled off the fireplace, and the front entry tiles were removed.  Prior to this, the head contractor told me There will be some dust and noise.  INDEED.  Barkley and I hid downstairs, for the most part, since it was pouring rain and I needed to be on hand in case of questions.  At one point the air in the house was white with fine dust, and after the task was completed and I was trying to set a world record on Number Of Times One Can Clean The Same Floor Area In A Four Hour Period, dust still magically reappeared.  Perhaps it was just hanging in the air waiting for me to finish cleaning before landing, yet again, or perhaps it was asexually reproducing; I don’t know.  All I know is that I have turned into a dusty Lady Macbeth, but without the mur-diddly-urder.  So not really like Lady Macbeth at all. 

How is your June going?  A large number of my friends greet June with great dread, due to all the year-end parties and wrap-ups and recitals and whatnot.  It’s not a bad month for me; the only thing I really have going on is Super Soccer Saturday, which is really just half a day, and only involves a small amount of volunteer effort on my part.  I did panic at one point and asked my friend who was organizing the volunteers if she had me scheduled to cook the hot dogs, and so, could I NOT cook the hot dogs, and she looked at me like I was crazy and assured me that she never, ever thought of having me cook the hot dogs, at which information I was greatly relieved.  WHEW.  So things are not bad, June-wise.  I mean, except for the dust and all.

Have you ever had one of those moments of incredulity, where you wonder This is what my life has come down to?  How did this happen?  I’m having one of those moments RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND.

I am speaking at our school’s kindergarten orientation tonight, to drum up interest about the School Council and Parent Association.  Oh, ha ha ha ha!  Good times.  The parents at the kindergarten orientation are generally more full of angst that their baby is heading to kindergarten/ relief that their child has made it to kindergarten to be genuinely interested in helping to weed the naturalization area, but you never know.  I am FULL OF OPTIMISM that someone will want to assauge their feelings of lost babyhood by rashly signing up for something. 

My neighbour – Beeps‘ “daddy” – informed me excitedly that we have new neighbours.  We do?  I didn’t realize.  I am home all day long, how could I not notice something like a new neighbour?  I wondered if I was just cluelessly going about my day, not noticing a moving truck, but he was referring to the new tenants in the rental house across the alley from me.  Oh, I said, did you meet them?  Well, not the people, he said.  But, he said, in the excited voice that adults everywhere talk to small children, there’s a puppy and a kitty!  I wondered how old Beeps’ “daddy” thinks I am, and if I should be flattered or alarmed.  Later I did notice a large, friendly looking black dog in the yard.  I immediately wondered if I should go introduce myself to the new neighbours.  Perhaps I should warn them about Beeps’ idiocy and propensity to escape.  You never know, they may need to borrow a shovel. 

Enjoy the Silence

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Now that the kitchen is done, which may have been the fastest, most efficient kitchen renovation known to man, the contractors are going to demolish our main floor bathroom, entryway, and fireplace, starting Wednesday.  Originally they were going to start last Friday, but not all materials were in.  So Wednesday it is, which means I am going to have had six days of relative silence.  The excessive cursing shall start Wednesday!  And then my mother-in-law is coming for a visit on Thursday.  Cue excessive drinking.

But oh, I am so happy with my kitchen.  I have been cooking things almost non-stop, I love it so.  I want to make out with it, and maybe go all the way and have little kitchen babies with it.  This is how I love you, kitchen.  And so I’m sure that the bathroom, entryway, and fireplace renovation will go very smoothly and I will love them all equally, but differently, when it’s all said and done.  RIGHT? 

I am a little worried, however, since the contractor told me to “expect some dust”.  Now, the kitchen renovation was pretty gross and dusty.  How gross and dusty is my house going to be?  The gross/dustiness peaked when the electrician cut holes in the ceiling to put in potlights, and had three different kinds of insulation – including wood chips – fall out all over the floor, counters, and, evidently the entire house.  I was finding little wood chips and pieces of insulation in parts of the house completely irrelevant to the kitchen. 

See?  For someone who’s as FLY as me, or for anyone for that matter, all that dust…all that clutter…I was a bit of a tense mess.  PASS THE WINE. 

I promised before and after pictures, and so here they are – drum roll?

Before:

Note the fridge, in all it’s artistic glory.  Also note how neat the countertops are.  That’s because I had to move everything:

Here’s a shot with the granite in, but nothing else:

And here’s a shot with the backsplash in…lighting, flooring and appliances to come:

What’s that on the island?  A cosmopolitan?  I needed a little something something after days of BANG BANG BANG *sound of air compressor* BANG BANG BANG LEVEL THE FUCKING TILES BANG BANG BANG *sound of saws* BRING ME A FUCKING HACKSAW. 

Speaking of appliances, the plumber who delivered and installed the dishwasher was fairly young, heavily tattooed, and looked like he spent all his free time in the gym.  His name was Lester.  Does that seem strange to anyone else? 

Anyway, here are the pictures of the final product:

And me, super super super excited to have six days of silence before the NEXT project! 

Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode!

A few of HIS least favourite things.

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My kitchen is done!  My kitchen is done!  I was feeling a bit concerned yesterday, and the day before, when a somewhat comical series of events took place that made the flooring installation take a full day longer than anticipated (“Hm.  Well.  This is going to complicate things.” the flooring guy said more times than I am comfortable with.)  I am extremely happy with the final product and I will post before and after pictures very soon, but today is Friday and I’m feeling a bit silly – giddy, even – and I have beer! because it’s a sunny day! and it’s a Friday! and the before pictures are on my other computer and I am just too silly, giddy, lazy, and beer-y to retrieve them.

The other day my husband and I were watching Modern Family and I pointed out the owl shaped cookie jar in their kitchen.  I had seen the same one on the anthropologie website, and I thought it was cute – outrageously overpriced, but cute.

“Please tell me you didn’t buy that.” my husband said.  Now.  I had no intentions of buying it – I don’t use cookie jars, and that particular cookie jar is $98, plus shipping and duties, and I think we can all agree that is an excessive price to pay for a cookie jar, when a Tupperware container does a much better job at keeping cookies fresh.  However, I thought – and still think – it’s adorable, but the vigor with which my husband opposed my way of thinking made me realize that, sometimes, we really are from different planets.
Mars and Venus, if you will.
I never actually read any of those books, for the record.  But I was inspired to make a list of things I love that my husband hates.  Hey, we could make a meme out of it!  Anyone want in?  Anyone?  Anyone? 
Things I Love That My Husband Hates
1. Kale chips.  I know!  How is that possible?  But, upon gamely trying some, he has said, and this is a direct quote, “GAH.  That is the worst thing I have ever eaten.” 
2. My favourite retro radio station that caters to old people.  What can I say, he is not a fan of 70s ballads.  He is also not a fan of listening to me sing along to 70s ballads in the car.  Baby I’m a want you.  
3. Speaking of retro, he’s not a fan of anything that could be described as retro, vintage-look, or antique.  He doesn’t like old things.  “But I like you, and you’re old!” I say to him, which is nearly always answered with a look only.  He also dislikes anything that can be described as kitchy.  In other words, he hates my new tea towel:


 
It says “Just Married”!  Sweet, right?  Following is the conversation we had about this tea towel.
Me: It’s so cute!  Just Married!
Husband: Why would you get something that says Just Married? 
Me: Don’t you think it’s cute?
Husband: But we’ve been married for ten years.
Me: But we’re in love just like we were just married!
Husband: *nonplussed silence*
4. This outfit:
This super comfortable outfit, he hates.  It’s not the little sweater.  It’s not the cropped leggings.  It’s this shirt:
“It looks like a maternity shirt!” he tells me, which is almost enough to dissuade me from wearing it.  And yet, I wear it still.  That shit is comfortable.  Someone mentioned that men universally dislike the empire waistline, from a “Is she knocked up?” point of view, which may be accurate.  I know that when I was pregnant, I mostly waddled around enjoying all the attention I received, in addition to eating eleven meals a day, while my husband worried about me.  So he may have a bit of PTSD from those days.  Still, I think the top is cute.  By the way, that’s the new flooring in the background.  Squee!
5. The people who do the weather and traffic reports on the morning news.  Okay, I don’t LOVE them, but I don’t actively hate them, either.  Given the chance I think that my husband would set them on fire. 
So, do you want to join in my Friday night meme?  Things you love but your significant other does not?  Good times, people, good times. 

I Don’t Know When, We’ll Get Together Then

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The noise in my house is insane right now.  The kitchen flooring is being very loudly ripped up and replaced, tiles are being demolished in the bathroom and entry way, and there is the loud sound of a Shop Vac and the omnipresent outside voices of the contractors.  I peeked upstairs to see the process and was very surprised to note that none of the contractors have any sort of ear protection, which seems a little reckless.  I am fighting the urge to be motherly to these guys, to force some ear protectors on their unwilling selves.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend who has three daughters, the youngest of whom is three years old.  She was tired, my friend, and she spoke of needing a break from her kids, which I understood completely.  I understood, but from afar, because I realized that I really don’t.  I never feel as though I need a break anymore since my days are generally one long break – the kids come home for lunch, true, but they are at school for almost six hours a day – and now even on Saturday mornings they are gone golfing with their dad.  I realize that it’s only a month until summer vacation, and then it will be all testosterone all the time but still.  I don’t hang out with the kids the way I used to.  Even when they are home they are usually immersed in their own games and rarely require anything of me other than to listen to their discussions and feed them snacks.

Sometimes it’s a bit lonely, is all I’m saying.

In anticipation of the flooring installation today and the appliance delivery on Thursday, I cleaned one hundred and thirty six pieces of the boys’ artwork off the fridge.  ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY SIX.  In some places the pictures were seven or eight deep, held on by super-strength magnets.  I looked at them all with much nostalgia and gloom; the family portrait Jake had made when he was three, complete with a giant curly circle which was meant to portray Barkley, the thirty or so pictures Mark had made of Muk-Muk and his imaginary friends, the recent pictures Jake had made of Mario Kart, and a whole series of pictures by Mark of various Canadian wild animals.  I realized suddenly that the kids don’t make me pictures much anymore.  At one point they were drawing twenty pictures a day, and now it’s rare that they sit down with the markers just to draw.  Yes, occasionally Jake will sit down and draw a Star Wars-themed picture, and Mark often sits down to make lists about who is winning what imaginary game with which imaginary weapon, but we don’t go through piles of recycled paper like we used to.

When I realized that, on taking the pictures down, there might not be new ones to put up, it was all I could do not to sit in a corner with the pictures cradled in my arms, rocking them like the babies I no longer have.

Pardon me while I sob a little bit.

It’s not like I want to go back in time; I do remember the exhaustion and isolation of having two little ones, I do remember feeling resentful when the weekend came and I was still on duty, playing endless games of farm animals or trains.  I spent how many months and years inventing things to do all day, thinking of activities and games to pass the time, the endless hours, and now there is never enough time in the day.  I remember wishing just for a few minutes to myself, just some time without the kids climbing on me asking me questions or tugging on me or needing me.  And now I have hours and hours.

Mr. Wilder, the Gangsta of Malone

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A fully functional kitchen plus a couple of rainy, miserable days equals KITCHEN PARTY!  I spent yesterday making granola – hippie me – baking cookies, chopping fruit and veggies, and making hummous that would make you cry tears of joy.  Well, it made ME cry tears of joy.  I was skeptical – who puts yogurt into hummous? – but it was the greatest hummous I ever consumed, no hyperbole.  I need to put it on the cooking blog – which right now has back-to-back cupcake recipes on it, so you should really be checking it out anyway just for the porny cupcake photos.  My husband has a new portrait lens in his camera and I didn’t know how to change that, so I had fun taking some arty pictures of peanut butter/chocolate cupcakes. 

Sigh.  It was only yesterday that I was kitchen party-ing.  I miss my kitchen so much.  Today the electrician came to put in new lighting and there are currently giant holes in the ceiling and much woodchips and insulation scattered all over the floor.  Lalalala.  How much longer until I can crack open that wine bottle?  Ever since giving up booze on weekdays, I appreciate Friday nights so much.  SO VERY MUCH. 

A few months back the boys were reading Little House on the Prairie in their class, and they asked me to read them the other titles in the series.  SCORE!  Pretty excited to not be reading another Geronimo Stilton or Magic Tree House, I dug out my old box set of Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and we read Little House in the Big Woods.  Why, oh, why did the Ingalls leave the Big Woods?  It all sounded so lovely and cozy, what with the excitement of blowing up a pig’s bladder like a balloon and eating a roasted pig’s tail, and going to a sugaring-off dance, and having both a corncob doll AND a rag doll.  Every other book is a tale of narrow death escapes and crippling poverty and malnutrition. 

But now we’re reading Farmer Boy and it is both heartwarming and horrifying.  On the one hand, I greatly prefer wealthy, businessman-like, pillar-of-the-community Mr. Wilder to flighty, keeps-putting-his-family-in-constant-danger Pa.  For one thing, there is always lots of food.  The food descriptions in that book reach food-porn levels.  If Almanzo was alive today, maybe he’d be a food blogger.  There would be lots of pictures of pie, we know that much.  So that’s kind of nice, compared with the Ingalls’ meals of bread and molasses, with salt pork fat if they are lucky. Plus, Mr. Wilder is kind of a badass.  Remember that it is Mr. Wilder’s blacksnake whip that is lent to the teacher so that the teacher can beat the living hell out of the disruptive boys who intend to murder the him and dissolve the school?  Just like they did the previous year?  Kind of makes the kids nowadays who speak in class without putting their hands up look like pussies, no?

Old-timey life seems pretty grim, even for a well-to-do family like the Wilders, doesn’t it?  The joy and excitement of the tin-peddlar’s annual visit.  The constant drudgery and field work.  The cutting of ice blocks and packing of said ice blocks into the ice house at forty below temperatures.  Walking around in shoes that don’t fit because the cobbler was late in arriving.  I mean, it kind of sucks.  It makes me feel bad for even complaining that my kitchen is currently covered with drywall dust and insulation.  Soon, the kitchen will be cleaned up, and I will be eating the world’s greatest hummous and making my way through a nice bottle of shiraz, so what is there to complain about, really?

First Step (Ask Her Out and Treat Her Like A Lady)

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The first step in the kitchen renovation is done!  Does anyone else immediately get Step By Step by Eddie Rabbit stuck in their head after saying the words “first step”?  Or is it just me?  I also cannot say – or listen to – the words “Here’s the situation” without mentally rapping the entire second half of Parents Just Don’t Understand by DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.  If I was hooked up to a brain monitor right now, it would show my mind exploding with both those songs, simultaneously, just from writing those words down.  It’s a good thing I never did my Ph.D., or I would possibly no longer have room in my head for every song lyric ever written. 

In any case, the countertops, sink, and backsplash are now installed in the kitchen; lighting, appliances, and flooring are yet to come.  I think the first step was the worst, in terms of completely inconveniencing everyone.  The first cut is the deepest?  Baby, I know.  Anyway, what the not-so-festive long weekend showed me was that I really spend a massive amount of my day in the kitchen.  When the kitchen was out of order, I descended into some kind of strange sloth and confusion as to what to do now?  But now that we are back in business, baby, I have resumed my normal activity level and am now spending much of my day in the kitchen, but not barefoot and – thankfully – not pregnant.

Which brings me to this point: when one wakes up at 4:40 am, this is what one can accomplish prior to 10:00 am:

Drive to yoga studio and back, practice for 95 minutes.
Feed dog, kids, and self, in that order.
Unload dishwasher, clean kitchen, make beds, pack school snacks.
Shower, dress, makeup, and hair.
Clean bathroom.
Ensure children are adequately dressed, washed, and have brushed their teeth.
Start laundry.
Give self a manicure and check email while the polish dries.
Take kids to school and hang out with them until the bell rings.
Book appointment for husband with a strange online registration program.
Walk dog.

This makes me feel very virtuous, until I realize that when one wakes up at 4:40 am, this is what one can accomplish after 8:00 pm:

Supervise children’s showers and teeth-brushing in a semi-catatonic state.
Tuck children into bed.
Collapse on couch and try to muster up the energy to watch an episode of Mad Men on Netflix.
Go to bed.

What I’m saying here is that I’m really more of a morning person.

Anyway, I’m so pleased with my kitchen renovation and the speed at which I had a functioning kitchen, that we have decided to remodel the bathroom!  And re-tile the front entry!  And re-finish the fireplace!  And lose my mind, apparently. 

For those of you who live in an older home, perhaps you have experienced this problem with renovating: once one thing is changed, it kind of makes the rest of the house look, how shall I say this, in need of an update.  It’s the black hole of renovating, it’s sucking me in.  The contractor actually suggested that my house would be so much more open if I just wanted to knock down this wall…but I shall not think of that right now.  I will only think about the fact that by NEXT THURSDAY my new kitchen is scheduled to be completed!  Right on time for a visit from my in-laws!

Cue ominous music.

Trapped in the Abyss of Kitchen Renovations

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Have you ever gone through a kitchen remodel?  It is stressful, and by stressful, I mean on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being my usual stress-free life and 10 being that of a single mother working in an underground coal mine to provide a subsistence living for her eight children, half of whom are terminally ill and the other half of whom are doomed to follow in her coal mining footsteps with a life of black luncg and alcoholism, my stress level is all the way up to 1.005.

I will say this about my contractors though – these men GIT ER DUN.  They don’t fuck around, these guys.  When I went to select the granite for the countertop, I wasn’t given some little six inch square samples to choose from.  That’s for pussies.  I was taken to what is called, alarmingly, a “slab warehouse”, a terrifying cavernous place filled with giant slabs of granite, some of which were being hoisted on a pulley contraption, travelling overhead to the loading dock.  For someone who has a teeny fear of death by crushing at Costco, this was a bit unnerving.  But at the slab warehouse, the slab chosen is the slab that becomes the countertop. 

So I was aware of the heavy and awkward nature of the countertop, which is why I ducked into my bedroom as the men – two brothers named Ron and Don, as I live and breathe, and some other young, unnamed man – brought it into the house.  I didn’t want to be in the way or startle or distract them at all, so as to avoid some kind of granite crushing accident.  I soon realized my mistake as they seemed to not know I was there at all.  The air turned blue with the cursing and general ill will of the bossy head contractor.  The way he spoke – and I use the word “spoke” rather loosely – to the other guys was kind of the opposite of positive reinforcement, if you know what I mean.

After a certain point I was scared to come out of my room.  One of the men had, evidently, stopped for a smoke, and therefore slowed down the entire process.  Now, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be irritated by a coworker who was smoking when there was work to be done, but I also don’t think I would hold it over him for the rest of his life. 

Or would I?

In any event, there I was, trapped in my bedroom with nary a book nor phone nor notepad to pass the time.  I stared out the window for a while, bored.  Finally all fell silent – was someone dead?  Would there be someone buried in my backyard along with Beeps?  I didn’t know, but I made a break for it.  They were all still there but the strangest thing happened: the minute I came into view they snapped to attention with extreme “lady in the room” manners.  Given that only minutes ago I heard the words “Well, that’s Tony’s fucking problem, isn’t it?  Now hand me a fucking hacksaw.  NOW” with reference to my sink, I felt a little strange about this turnaround.

After some very pleasant small talk and compliments on my choice of granite slab, I went downstairs to my cozy, entertainment rich basement, and the expletives and yelling resumed immediately.  Did they not know I could still hear them?  I don’t know, but it was a small price to pay for their craftmanship, which was excellent.

As a social experiment, when they arrived a few days later to tile the backsplash, I curled up on the big living room chair with my notepad and a book, in full view.  Installing the tile was either way easier, or my presence was magical, as they complimented each other on their fine workmanship.  Don even went outside to have several cigarettes, and not one word was uttered.