Our calm little flat is in an upraor of confusion. For some unknown reason, and despite repeated assurances from me and from Bartender Dude that we don't care about this at all, our benevolent landlords have decided to push forward with ripping apart our kitchen in order to fix the hairline cracks in the tile floor. When we first brought these infintesimal cracks to their attention at our year anniversary walk-through in October last, we made it clear that we only wanted to let them know to protect the eventual return of our security deposit, but that we didn't care two straws about getting them fixed. The tiles weren't shifting around, or chipping at the edges, or deteriorating in any way, and we didn't want the landlords to think we were superfussy or prima donnas about every tiny flaw in our 100-year old apartment. We made a list of the top three things we wanted fixed if they were amenable (the sticking door, the sticking windows, the busted floorboards), but the chimerical cracks in the kitchen tile that looked like the spidery tracing of wind patterns on frosted surfaces were NOT on the list. In fact, they were second to last on the List of Stuff We Wanted You to Be Aware of But You Needn't Bother Spending Your Money On.
Nevertheless, the landlords are in a fury of improvement. First there was the project to re-enamel the tub, after which we had to wash it out with dishwashing liquid and a soft cloth every time we used it FOR A MONTH. Then there was the project to re-carpet the sitting room, after which we've been terrified to eat anything remotely greasy or red in there, which has greatly cut into our television viewing. And our drinking of red wine.
Now we are living in a demolition zone, with no ability to boil water or dump empty glasses in the sink or chuck things in the dishwasher. Behold the destruction:
The worst part of having no kitchen is having all of it piled in the adjacent office.
I can't get to anything, I can't find anything, I can't cut lemons for my tea or pull out a bowl for microwaveable soup. Neither can I cook anything, which is difficult in itself, but I can't even slice cheese or make iced tea or locate the grater to make nachos.
In situations like this, my new poster comes in handy:
Kicking it old school, washing dishes like my grandma did:
Where are the candles, the bowl and pitcher, the symmetrical Laura Ingalls braids? I feel like I am living in a hotel with detritus piled in one corner of the room.
Today, Bartender Dude and I drove to the grocery store and loaded up on frozen dinners and a huge jug of Arizona iced tea. I've never been so embarrassed in the checkout line in my life.
Okay, so it's not like I stockpile KY Jelly and bleaching cream and Beano on a regular basis, but STILL.
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