A Plan Makes Reality

When Kisa and I bought Hilltop we declared it MIR – move-in ready. We didn’t need to do a thing. It was perfect. Perfect until we peering looking in dark corners and peeling back the pretty facade. We always knew it needed new siding. Soon we discovered just how much. Then came new gutters, a back deck overhaul and a new drainage system. Little things cropped up, things like replacing the back slider (twice!), the water heater, the pool liner, the central vac hose…Okay, so no longer perfect but still a dream home by all accounts.

Then I started to despise and adore one particular room. The kitchen. Now the more I try to cook in this designated area the more my love-hate relationship grows. Little by little I find fault upon fault with my culinary domain and yet it’s one of the better kitchens I have ever cooked in. The state of the art microwave hangs too low over the stove (the electric stove for pete’s sake!) – so low I can’t steam a bunch of lobster or boil a huge pot of pasta. The corner sink is not only incredibly teeny tiny, it’s in the darkest part of the room. If Kisa empties the dishwasher I am useless in the kitchen with him. I can open and close the fridge door to my heart’s content but the dishwasher is blocking access to the sink, the stove and to the counter where I do most of my prep work. The appliances are not (gasp!) energy star. The fridge door dispenses water but not ice. The ice maker works but has no place to spit the ice. I could go on and on about this catastrophe of a beautiful kitchen. Ranting doesn’t really help.

But. A plan does. We just refinanced our mortgage, saving us a few bucks each month. By my calculations by this time next year we can afford to reno the entire kitchen. If done right we could (potentially) flip the entire space. Instead of a claustrophobia-inducing peninsula, picture this: a space-freeing island  complete with electricity, storage and seating for four. Instead of cramped, narrow cabinets, I see a floor to ceiling pantry. Instead of a tiny kitty-corner sink suitable for washing a rat, imagine, if you will, a huge farmer’s drop sink. New floors (forgot to mention that whoever installed our current tile “cheated” by not tiling under the counters OR appliances). Of course we’ll need new lighting. Maybe knock out a wall. Definitely new appliances that actually do what they’re supposed to…I could go on and on.

We have been talking about renovating the kitchen for nearly two years. Talk, talk, talk about it is all we ever do. But, by putting away new-found money, researching ideas and coming up with a plan we have taken a step towards making this dream a reality. In my mind a plan makes reality!

Salt in the Wounds

I watched the shows. Intervention. Addicted. Cops. Bad boys, bad boys. I know what they do. But, what if the rumor is girls? Why does that make the latest events harder to accept? Girls can shatter a backdoor slider just as easily as guys. Girls can creep into your home and tear it apart. Girls can rip through boxes and bags and belongings just as quickly and as coldly as their male counterparts. So, why does the description of “young female crackhead” make this cleanup so much more tedious and tender? I scrutinize the damage trying to get into a junky’s head. Not one box overlooked. Every box unlocked. A wooden recipe box overturned. Every little black engagement box pried open. Toolboxes. Hat boxes. Shoe boxes. Music boxes. Cracker boxes. I’m in awe of how thorough the search was. And yet, at first glance they missed everything.

We wander through the topsy turvy rooms in disbelief. I’m on the phone saying what the fukc? Until I can’t find Indiana. For those of you keeping score you know Indiana is a box of ashes…and remember not one box was left unlocked nor overlooked. Disbelief quickly turns to complete and utter despair when I can’t find Indiana’s box. I have never felt such ice cold rage race through me at the exact same time as complete heartbreak. simultaneous torturous emotions surging together. My swearing with bravado is quickly replaced with shuddering sobs. Kisa later called me incoherent. Ruby rushes right over.
We found Indy. A bag of powder that could only be the cremated remains of a 13lb cat lay amidst the rest of the nightstand’s debris. Indiana’s box lay broken on the floor. By this time we were counting up the could haves – they could have taken this; they could have taken that. Head scratching items curiously left behind. Piece by piece we sifted through the remains to realize it almost all remained. Nearly everything.
We count it up. They got away with a laptop that wasn’t ours (sorry, Dave!). Odd and worthless pieces of jewelry. Nine years worth of quarters and nickels. A pair of earbuds. Nothing more, nothing less. They got to see where I keep my vibrator and my Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. They know I bathe in epsom salts and keep a stash of dried cranberries in the fridge. They know I sleep with a turtle. They went through every box I own.

So I go back to Intervention. Cops. Crime TV. I replay the day’s events. Returning from a funeral. Walking in on chaos. Shrugging off the missing. Shouldering the blame. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. My sensibilities have been raped. Nothing makes sense. It’s like salt in the wounds.

Water Works

A few weeks ago my office got a steam bath. I was able to turn a difficult situation into a positive by thinking about how clean my office would be now that all the super soaked books and papers and things had been removed. I tried not to think about the Atticus handprint or the Silas squiggle I had to discard. I tried not to care about books warped and ruined before I had a chance to read them. I moved on.

This week I experienced a different kind of soaking. First, it started in the bathroom. Kisa and I had just gotten home from a whirlwind trip to Maine. Visiting the dying is never a fun gig but that’s a whole ‘nother story. The point is, we were tired. Cranky. Glad to be home. Relieved to be back. I was in the bathroom, having a little relief of my own, when the first drip of cold water hit me square in the eye. An icy and startling drop of water. I looked up in time to have another drop land on my cheek. Then another and another. It was raining in the bathroom. Kisa determined it was the dryer vent, heating up the ice on the roof, and having nowhere to go, getting into the window casing. We stocked the window full of towels and prayed for warmer weather.

A day later I was walking laps around my dining room table (don’t ask if you don’t have cats) when I heard a tapping noise coming from the media closet. The sounds was steady like a drum. Inwardly I groaned. It could only be one thing: more water. Sure enough, the media closet was soaked. Cds, books, all the stereo equipment, drenched. Hand printed set lists ran with sharpie ink. Liner notes from tape cassettes (yes, I still have them) were warped and ruined. Whose bright idea was this? A discman sat in a puddle. I could only stare at the destruction in disbelief. Could this really be happening? How? I looked up to see a giant bubble in the ceiling, like a balloon filled with water, ready to burst. It made me laugh for some absurd reason. Was I thinking of Harrison Avenue? Another bubble from another time?

Home owners insurance will cover the window casing in the bathroom, the ceiling in the media closet, and the roof soffit. What it won’t cover is my frustration with this weather. Hilltop wasn’t designed for ice – at least while I want to do laundry!

Wild Tax Free Weekend

My bank account and I are exhausted. Dead tired. We need a good nap. For some reason “tax free” is synonymous with “shop more” and that’s exactly what we did. For two days straight. Shop ’til you drop. That’s not to say our purchases weren’t smart. We didn’t do anything stupid like buy more shoes that hurt our feet or buy more makeup we’ll never wear (both very much unneeded from where I’m standing). We didn’t go crazy on blaring televisions or booming stereos either. No thanks. No. Thanks to tax free weekend Hilltop is the one getting the sexy makeover.

First, winterizing the pool. Didn’t need to do that last year. After draining the water into our neighborhood yards we let the liner flap in the wind until it was torn to shreds and blew away. Talk about the easiest way to close a pool: pop the liner and let ‘er rip! Just kidding. That’s not how it happened. Well, it did but it’s not like we did it on purpose. So anyway, we bought every closing supply known to mankind for this year: pool chemicals, pool pumps, pool covers, pool clamps, pool you name its, we bought it.

Then came tree service. We are having more trees cleared from the backyard. The pool (right now) looks like it’s getting attacked by the neighbor’s big, overhanging branches. We’ll have those trimmed back and then some. We’ll also have last falls harvest cut up into wood stove length…But, we don’t have a wood stove. Well, we didn’t until tax free weekend.

Next, we bought a wood burning insert for the fireplace. It’s black and ominous looking. Should go well with the demure masonry and lily white mantle….It will be nice to have the smell of a fireplace in the winter. Something to cozy up to with a good book. Since we bought a wood burning insert we had to decide to fix the back slider. Couldn’t do one without the other. Don’t want to heat the whole outdoors, as my dad would say. That meant buying a whole new back door.

Fourth. We bought a whole new back sliding door for the entrance to the deck. It’s white and wood with bolting locks (no more wood bar). We pick it up on Saturday. UP installs it… when??? – sometime before the snow flies. I hope.

Finally, we bought paint. Inspired by the back door we bought paint for the front door. In the color of Fire weed. Go figure. I don’t get the red house but I get a bright red door. In the color of Fire. Weed. Red. Whatever.

So, Hilltop will get her makeover. I’m excited for her. New landscaping. New fireplace. New doors. Can’t wait. On the agenda for next tax break? A new patio! Or new windows. Or a new kitchen. Or a new laundry room…

9:30 on a Tuesday Night

9:30pm on a Tuesday night. I wasn’t hanging out with Sheryl Crow and I wasn’t headed downtown to check out anything. I was in the pool. Naked. Ever since my husband has been able to swallow the idea of running an 8k he has been the excellent athlete in training. Once he spit out the notion of a r.a.c.e. he has been able to bite down on the rest of the program – sit ups, push ups, he’s up for anything. Which has made me game for the same.

After Kisa took to his football game (a new release) I took to the treadmill and ran an easy 2.8mi. I say easy because it was only 30 minutes and I could sing at the top of my lungs without getting winded. It felt good to not worry about getting tired (for once!). Then it was time to work on the arms – not so easy. I’m starting the 30-20-10 bi/tri program (three sets of push ups and tri-dips with, you guessed it, 30, 20, and 10 reps). Sit ups were much, much easier. 100 reps of five different exercises. Then. The pool.

I am not a pool loving girl. The chlorine chemicals alone kill me. The idea of floating around in a man-made bucket of warm water sends me to insanity. Give me the beautiful Atlantic ocean (sharks, seaweed, salt and all) any day and I’m all the way happyhappy. In the year+ we have owned the house I have not submerged myself in the fake-water pool once. Only this summer have I really started floating around on a lounge/raft thing and truly enjoying myself. This time Tuesday was different. Hot, sweaty, and cranky I needed air. And water. A shower wouldn’t cut it. The pool called my name. Dusk was settling in. The sky was turning shades of baby blue to black. My favorite time of day-night. Crickets rubbed noisily and bats darted across the darkening sky. A rabbit tiptoed wide-eyed across the lawn. The pool’s water looked, well…shimmering and perfect. Without bothering with a swimsuit I jumped in wearing just a sports bra and boy shorts. As soon as I hit the water I felt ridiculous. My backyard is completely private. It was getting darker than dusk. Who could see me? The rabbit? Bats? Suddenly it seemed silly to be so sensitive. I lost the clothes and swam for nearly an hour in the dark until it was time for bed. The solitude and soothing rhythm of the rippling water was the perfect story. The perfect bedtime story.

Honeysuckle Sweet

My mother discovered a honeysuckle bush on my property while she was visiting. Who me? I have a honeysuckle bush? Really? Really. Turns out, I have two. We were standing in front of the arborvitaes and I was busy pointing out the swath of freshly exposed land; the aftermath of the tree cutting we had done in the fall. “This was all trees and brush…” I said, throwing my arms wide. My mother wasn’t listening. Instead she was peering through the arborvitaes. Like timid children hiding behind their mother’s skirt were two spindly, scrawny bushes. “I think you have honeysuckles back there…” She moved closer, carefully as if not to scare them off. “They’re past bloom,” she practically whispered, “but they look just like what I have on the island…” My mother, now convinced I own two honeysuckle bushes, immediately launched into What You Should Do to care for them. I felt like running for a notebook.

This wasn’t the only discovery on the property. Soon my mother was pointing out tiny blue flowers and instructing me not to weed them for “they make good ground cover and they’re pretty.” I guess so. They were kind of hard to see. Then there was the education on how to care for something that sounded like “Youwannamus.” “You’ll want to dig that youwannamus up in the fall and replant it along the house…” The who goes where? This was followed by other trinkets of advice: fertilize that Asiatic lily in the fall, trim the rose bush (now?), deadhead the geraniums, seed the soil…she droned on, pointing this way and that.

While I was grateful for every word I knew I wouldn’t remember everything. I begged for a calendar – something that would remind me, mid-September, to water the whatever, dig up the  doodad in the back. For now I will relish the idea of owning good ground cover, a youwanna-something-er-rather and I’ll pride in the honeysuckle sweet.

When It’s Work Week Eight

I hate to admit it when training becomes a chore. I really don’t want to think of it as something I *have* to do. Am I making sense? I guess when I view something as a chore it’s the equivalent of complaining and that’s not what I want to do. Yet…and yet I had trouble fitting in the training. It became a challenge. There. I said it. Here are the numbers. You’ll see what I mean.

• Monday  1.25 mi/walk
• Tuesday 4.16mi/run (tread)
• Wednesday nada
• Thursday 1.87mi/walk
• Friday 2.01mi/walk
• Saturday 8.71mi/walk (neighborhood)
• Sunday 2.52mi/walk (tread)

20.52 miles. So very short of what I intended to do. Monday started off exactly as planned. I was 1.25 mi short of the Sunday goal and Monday was spent making it up. Tuesday was good. Over goal. Wednesday –  there was simply no time anywhere to fit in a dedicated walk. I’m sure if I wore a pedometer it would have registered at least two miles over the course of the entire day…Thursday was cut short because of working late and getting home late and starting dinner late. Latelatelate. Friday was a wash because Kisa came home early (we had a dinner party to go to)…then there was the weekend. Saturday was a full day of chores: LowesT for a wheelbarrow , Michael’s for fabric paint so I can honor cancer patients on my sweep bag and shirt, Toy’s Rn’t Us for more Atty gifts, the Pool Shop to price liners, pumps and a sturdy ladder, cleaning the garage of crap, washing, drying, folding, putting away five loads of laundry and still I managed 8.71 miles. Sunday was a different story: two more loads of laundry, the cat’s sh!t house, grocery shopping, moving humongous stumps, broken glass and yard work, returning stuff to LL Beaner, a phone call home…by the time I was ready to walk the sun was setting and I hadn’t even thought about dinner. So, I didn’t get far. In total I have walked 137.56 miles. I am in Commack or outside Margaretville, NY. I am almost in Killington, VT or Exeter, N.H. I am everywhere and nowhere just the same.

Maybe this week will be different. I don’t know. Here are the numbers that will stare at me for the rest of the week:

• Monday – nada (I have to work late)
• Tuesday – 4 miles
• Wednesday – 2 miles
• Thursday – 4 miles
• Friday – 2 miles
• Saturday – 10 miles
• Sunday – 10 miles

In other news, I am halfway to my fund raising goal. The notes and names have touched me deeply. It’s as if I can hear across the ink how much loved ones are missed. “Please remember my beloved wife.” “Our angel in heaven – mom.” “My sister taken too soon.” Sometimes it is just the first name as if writing out the whole name would break a heart. Seeing the entire name would be too much to bear. Twenty names in all. Twenty donations made out of love and sorrow and most of all, hope.

Taking Thanks Today

So, I made myself believe in Santa Claus. I pursuaded me to listen for the Easter Bunny. I never had a doubt about the Great Pumpkin. And I’ve finally talked moi into Thanksgiving. Giving thanks, taking thanks.

48 hours ago, if you had asked, I would have said I’m healthy. I would have believed it like the Easter Bunny. Everything has come back normal, negative, nothing to worry about. Yesterday, all that changed when my doctor called me. At work. Called me. Like the 2am call or the uncharacteristic I Love You from a sibling I knew something was somewhat unusual and more than wrong. “Your cells are looking a little wonky. Abnormal.” doc explained. Yeah, so? Aren’t they always? Over the years I have gotten used to the inverted cervix, tilted uterus story. Been there, done that. This time was different. Something in her tone made me sit up, take notice and almost drop the phone. “We’ll run some more tests…” she trails off. Wait. Isn’t that the whole reason for the entire feet-in-the-stirrups-no-giddyup-process? So you can run some tests? What kind of screening is this if there is more to it? I’m left with a dial tone and a sense of dread. Wait and see. See and wait.

Since all I can do is play the waiting game I take thanks instead. Our contractor finished the “mudroom” over the weekend. I have always wanted a house with a welcoming place to shrug off the coat and peel back the gloves. Somewhere to store the dripping boots and hang the hat. That ComeRightIn welcoming attitude. In a black marble fancy foyer with crystal chandelier swaying overhead it didn’t seem like I would get that warm and cozy welcome. Until we talked to a contractor. In a matter of two days he was able to build the most amazing double-sided “staircase.” On the side facing the front door, a place to hang coats. A bench for taking off boots. Cubby holes for storing hats, gloves, mittens and keys, maybe a shy cat. On the other side, a bookcase for all my previous read again and agains. It’s beautiful. Like it has always been there. To while away the waiting (and worrying) I will paint instead. Paint and wonder what kind of hooks we’ll need for coats. I’ll keep thanking instead of thinking.

Talk the Turkey Talk

I thought I would be stressed about hosting my first Thanksgiving. I was picturing no space in the oven, chaos in the kitchen, complaining behind closed doors. Kids breaking things, pets peeing in corners, adults drinking too much. Raw turkey, burnt green beans, egg shells in the mix. Worst nightmare. Take-out anyone?

Not so. I did some research. I made a timeline. I discovered it really doesn’t have to be difficult. The whole day could, potentially, be very simple. Anticipating problems equals problem solving. No space in the oven – get a turkey roaster that can sit on a counter, freeing up all the oven space I need. Find stove-top recipes. Chaos in the kitchen – kick ’em out! If you aren’t working get out. Go hang out! Complaining behind closed doors – that will probably be me – so, simply don’t let it happen. Kids breaking things – don’t leave anything out that can be broken (duh). Pets peeing in corners – Indy will behave, I’m sure. I don’t know why she’s a concern. Adults drinking too much – again, that will probably be me – so again, simply don’t let it happen. As for the cooking disasters I nightmare about? Practice, practice, practice.

The Menu:
Herb roasted turkey OR cranberry orange roasted turkey…we will roast a tester tomorrow to see how it all works out.

Sausage cornbread stuffing OR sausage garlic bread stuffing…I already made a batch of the garlic bread kind and I loved, loved, loved it. We’ll test the cornbread stuffing tomorrow.

Cider gravy or cider gravy…it just sounds too good to try anything else. Again, I’ll make it tomorrow just to see what happens. Do I really need a fat separator?

Cranberry sauce 1: Tuaca touched (in honor of the wedding)

Cranberry sauce 2: Chipotle touched (in honor of smoky heat)

Mashed potatoes…carmelized shallot buttermilk or garlic? Leaning towards the buttermilk…again, we’ll test tomorrow.

Sweet potatoes – in years past I made cajun inspired potatoes served in orange shells. I think straight-up sweets with mini marshmallows will do the trick this year, in honor of the kids.

Green beans – this year I am saying no to the standard casserole – you know the one – the cream of something soup with crunchy onion things on top. This year I want to do something that will not need the oven and be just a little different. Something with yummy bacon and garlic.

Pearl onions – these will be new as well. Pearls with raisins, honey, butter, almonds, sherry…should be fun. I’ll make a mock-up of those tomorrow as well.

Dessert – something simple – pumpkin pie whoopies with ice cream. It’s my mom’s birthday so I’m wondering if a pumpkin spice cake with cream cheese frosting might be nicer?

So. There’s the menu. Minus the bread. I’m really still trying to decide to do about that. Tomorrow, I cook. And cook.

(It’ll Be) Just Like Starting Over

In September I nearly logged 50 miles of running. Mostly on the treadmill, but running  just the same. In October I nearly logged 19.5 – nowhere near the numbers of September. Should I be beating myself up over this? No. Especially if I think about what I ran in October of 2008…6.45 miles. 6.45 miles total. This October is three times better than last year. So, why am I thinking I want to start over? Because I do. And so I am. Starting over. On August 1st, 2009 I vowed I would get back to the run, and for the most part, I have. I just think I have been going about it all wrong. Who says I have to run every other day, no matter what? I think October suffered because I burnt myself out. I suffered a breakdown of self. My passion for cooking took a back burner to the run. I read books without caring about the plot just so that I could log the miles instead. Nothing was done with enthusiasm because all I cared about was the run. It became more important to say that I ran it than to believe I ran it well. Does that make sense?

And so I start over. Last night I ran 2.73 miles as gently as I could. Partly because I haven’t been on the tread for over a week and mostly because I fought with leaves over the weekend. Who knew that yard work could beat me up so much? I took a serious thrashing from eight bags of leaves, a few rolled stumps and a bunch of well-pulled weeds. Four hours of yard work. I seriously couldn’t touch my toes the next day. Scratch my back? Forget it! Impossible. I was that sore. Tonight I will work out the tightness with a few yoga poses. I need to find my center. It’ll be just like starting over. Amen.