Kitchen Remodel Update:
Remember waaaay back in October when The Hubster said, "Oh, btw, the carpenters will be here in ten minutes."? And then two... gentlemen ... showed up and proceeded to tear out my kitchen?
Well, they're still here. But then you knew that. YOU saw waaaay back in October that these guys were digging in for the winter, burying acorns, damming up the creek, installing satellite teevee.
I, on the other hand, thought: Damn! These guys look like they need a meal. They'll work 40+ hours every week just for the paycheck. I will have the Martha Stewart Kitchen of My Dreams in 60 days TOPS!
About two weeks ago (actually longer ago than that, but I didn't want to say anything lest I be lectured about how these guys are taking their time because they do QUALITY work) I noticed that progress had slowed to a...dead freaking stop. Mentioned it to Hubster. Apparently he'd noticed, too, because he replied with a grunt not the lecture.
So TH stated plainly to the guys that he's about to run out of money (which he isn't, but they don't know that) and that they need to finish up before Friday - today - which would be the day of their last paycheck.
You'd THINK - I thought - they'd be here all week, putting in some serious hours, knocking this shit out so they could move on. But no. They showed up on Monday, hung a few cabinet doors, shuffled around and left. For the week. Until today. Payday.
The TRAGEDY here is that we will have to finish whatever work they don't. Which, you know, is not beyond our combined ability and experience but, but, but... It's supposed to be FINISHED! Ready for company! Worthy of a great unveiling! Where's Martha Stewart? Where's the photographer from Better Homes and Gardens?...And WHERE the hell did my salad tongs go? Did they use them to stir paint? Oh, wait, NO because they aren't GOING to paint. I am going to paint.
So here I sit, working from home today because of a doctor's appointment (bronchitis - yeay, me) listening to them listen to a radion station on which random people from out in the country call in to sell their castoff belongings.
"I got here a per-fikt-ly good naw-ga-hyde whatchacall a Barka Lownger with only a few cig-rette burns innit. I'll give it fer $50. Call 764-0000."
Interrupted only occasionally by a tap or a single pound, or a brief unidentifiable plunger-sucking sound, and it is taking every ounce of control I have not to storm in there and say, "YOU HAVE FIVE HOURS TO MAKE THIS LOOK LIKE THIS" sweeping my arms widely and holding up the centerfold spread of the tiny but chic kitchen in Martha's tiny but chic Manhattan pied-a-terre. "GET BUSY, BUBS!"
The photo above is was taken in my kitchen last night. Okay, not really, but this is the only update you'll get until it is complete, which hopefully will be before my retirement in early 2037.