Hall of horrors

Hello! I have had too many Mike & Ike's and while the sugar was coursing through my veins, I took pictures of our aesthetically challenged house. You know. Those photos I promised you last week? Before I came down with something we'll call a cold but felt more like pleurisy. Or consumption. Take your pick. Regardless, I finally took the photos and am ready to take you on a tour of Things That Will No Longer Be. Come along, won't you?

Let's start in the kitchen. The cabinets and counter tops will be torn out in about 10 days. And I will never again have to look at the birds. That are flying...where? It's hard to say. But they are directionally challenged and I have a hard time not stabbing myself in the eye each morning when I come down and look at them, flying without regard for my feelings all over the back splash. I wish I could tell you that the color, that lovely beautiful rust color, was a trick of the camera. Alas, someone actually thought it would be a good idea to install not only the tiles, but then a counter of a matching hue. THEY WILLINGLY CHOSE IT. To have poo colored birds and counters. They must have been hopped up on WAY more than Mike & Ike's. I'm doing your eyes a favor by only showing you a sliver of the place. You're welcome.

Let's move on to the cabinets, shall we? Again, so as not to offend, here is a mere glimpse. The 1980's came to roost and never left. We'll be watching movies from that era and either Marc or I will go, "Hey look! Our cabinets!" I'm sure if I looked hard enough, Tom Cruise would be lurking in a corner somewhere. I'd have to shoo him off to the Scientology center down the street because we really don't have the space to spare, no matter how small he is. And no, I didn't open the door in that jaunty manner so that you could get a better view of the veneer that covers the plywood doors. The door is ajar because it decided to stop shutting last week. Just like that. I think it knows its days are numbered and is expressing its displeasure. The door can just SUCK IT.

Behold! Our faucet! As faucets go, it's totally functional. It's also totally ugly. So OUT. OUT WITH YOU. It should be mentioned that we have some of the most awesome water pressure known to man. This faucet amplifies it somehow and we're often baptized by the enthusiastic spray of water that issues forth. It's not uncommon when we're having a dinner party to hear guests shriek, "WWWLLLLAAAHHHHHHGAH!" and then come out of the kitchen completely soaked down the front. They often make some succinct observation - "You have crazy strong water pressure." Indeed. So we'll be getting a deeper sink and a faucet to mitigate some of that flow. Again, you're welcome. AND MY GOD THOSE BIRDS ARE EVERYWHERE.

And then we come to the lights. We have three of these beauties that flew in from the planet Fluvenzorgen some 20 years ago, found out that Earth girls were easy and never left. Honestly. Beyond the problems I have with the person who BOUGHT this, I have an even bigger bone to pick with the person who DESIGNED it. They ought to have their colored pencils revoked immediately.

See? Here's one of the original little guys. Captain Fritz. He's coming off of a bender but has enough energy to say hello. He's the fleet commander and I find him in states of disrepair all over the house. I think he's figured out how to get into the liquor cabinet.

So the tour is now finished and I hope I haven't seared your eyes with the birds and the brown and the rust and the ugliness. To be quite frank, I'm just happy to have a home and a kitchen and all of the amenities that many other people do without. I ought not to be complaining about the flight patterns of my tile as we are fortunate to be able to call that tile our own - AND to be able to RIP IT OUT. It will be nice to have that gone. You'll all be invited over for dinner. You just might have to bring your own food. And eat outside. To keep the new kitchen clean.

What is our fire insurance policy, anyways? I should know that.

I was going to post pictures today, to give you some sense as to what has been going on over here at TLP HQ, but then Marc came down with a cold that is masquerading as The Plague which means that he is twisting and listless on the corner of the couch moaning all sorts of unintelligible, phlegmy things that translate into "I AM SUFFERING O WOE BRING ME SOME TEA AND A HOT POULTICE AND O THE MISERY!" So I've been alternating between ferrying various healing items to said corner to make him feel better and wondering if I'd really get caught for smothering him. HA! Kidding! Sort of!

Anyhoo, the tea making and airing out and chasing of used Kleenex all over the house has kept me from taking photos of what is going to heretofore be known as The Lifting of Jen Out of Her Home Decor Related Despair, 2010. Which might be a bit dramatic, but it is something I've been looking forward to since the day we moved in. In to this little house that possesses the most 1980's of kitchens, the ugliest of tile choices and lighting fixtures that have set me running, screaming into the night on more than a few occasions.

We are also swimming in a sea of brown. I know that sounds alarmingly fecal, but with the mismatched wood colors, the brownish counter top and tile of indeterminate color, the only word that comes to mind is poop! It's a petrified wood forest of horrors and later this month it is ALL COMING OUT. Well, we're starting with the kitchen. I'll post pictures this week so you can adequately understand what we're dealing with...and when you see them you'll scream, MY EYES! MY EYES! JUST SET IT ALL ON FIRE! But! There is hope!

So this weekend, we spent a lions share of Saturday picking out granite, light fixtures, a sink, a faucet. Activities that have the potential to make a husband and wife want to kill one another because you come to realize that you've married an aging frat boy who bases his preferences on whether or not the sconces adequately represent boobs. I'm thrilled to report that this was not the case with us and that we were in and out of all stores in a maximum of ten minutes, agreed on everything and managed NOT to slaughter the irritating children at the granite place. We even high fived over burgers at lunch at our timeliness! Our ability to acquiesce to the other one's wishes! That we didn't get pouty when the other person said no! Marriage at it's best people.

We returned home and Marc promptly fell ill. I think all of that compromise and good humor and the irritating kids really took it out of him. I brought him some tea yesterday and as I stroked his head, he sneezed in my face. I got excited for a moment thinking, "Perhaps I will fall ill and have to take to my bed with the vapors!" You see, I could use some time off before the Kitchen Overhaul. But alas, my new, super-powered immune system laughs in my face at my wishes to be bedridden just long enough to get through the stack of books on my nightstand. Instead, the next week will be full of culling and sorting and packing and rending of my garments as I wonder what sane person needs so much tupperware and three types of vegetable peelers.

But! Shiny new kitchen! And lack of brown! And odd wood assortments! Hooray!

Photos forthcoming.

You cannot relax to Bob Dylan

Amazingly, I didn't bring back a crippling intestinal problem from Mexico. I was prepared to. We set out with all sorts of pharmaceuticals to combat everything that could go wrong with one's colon. Enough, in fact, that I was afraid we might exceed our weight limit on Air Mexicana given the sheer volume of Miralax and Imodium we were toting. Happily, we never had to use any of it and I stopped looking for a Medivac wherever I went. I attribute this gastrointestinal strength to tequila, handiwipes and the fact that I've stopped licking doorknobs.

Near the end of our trip, my mother-in-law, Charlene, had arranged for a spa afternoon for the two of us. The way to my heart is via a thorough rub down of my body, so of course I was delighted at the prospect and on the morning of, did a little dance in front of Marc that concluded with my saying, "I get a massage! SUCK IT!"

And, oh, how the mighty fall.

After check in and changing into fluffy robes, my masseuse led me back into her room. There was an immediate problem with the language barrier. I speak no Spanish but had been able to get by most of the week by saying things like, "Cazadores! Guacamole!" phrases that, sadly, would not apply in this situation. So I gesticulated, pointing at my back and neck and then at my feet yelling "WORK ON THIS!" at top volume. That always helps, you know. I then made a sweeping gesture down my legs and, with a face that was supposed to convey "You can ignore this part" but I fear mistakenly expressed that I was holding back a fart, we concluded the initial meeting and she left so I could disrobe and crawl under the sheets.

I hung my robe and, now completely nude, started to climb onto the table. Most women will attest to the fact that there are moments when naked that your body does not look it's best no matter how much time you spend at the gym. One of those is when climbing into a bed and wrestling with the sheets before you lie down. The stomach somehow looks like a Shar Pei and things wiggle that really ought not to. I was in this position, trying to push my feet down to the bottom of the sheets when I realized that they were stuck. I had a terrible flash back to college, a time when I mastered the art of short sheeting rather than going to my chemistry lab, and wondered if this was some sort of Karmic retribution of my having trapped so many friends in their beds years ago. I wrestled with the sheets, unable to get my legs to move and somehow completely tangling up my left foot in the process. My body, from the knees up, was entirely exposed.

It was at this point that I heard the soft knocking at the door and before I could scream, "MAYDAY! MAYDAY!" the knob turned, and in walked my masseuse who, taking one look at my stricken face and akimbo body flew to my side and began trying to help me. Unfortunately, she could not, and at this point I was in the midst of severe cold sweats at having a complete stranger so close to my privates. And I KNOW that I was about to let her oil me up and rub me down, but at least with a strategically placed SHEET in play.

Not to take you through all of the grisly details, but she finally took a proactive stance and just ripped the sheet off of the table, releasing me from it's hold with one swift tug. I wasn't sure I could go on after this without being simultaneously bathed in gin, but there we were, with no bar in sight, and I was going to ENJOY THIS MASSAGE, dammit.

So she began, and I tried to regain some of my composure...my dignity had clearly left the premises and was probably enjoying happy hour in the hotel lobby. That slag. I was trying to breathe and forget what had happened earlier while my masseuse started in on my neck and shoulders. Tinkly music was playing in the background and I felt myself slowly relaxing. Who cares if my vagina had just been on display? Lalala...

"HHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHPSSSSHHHHH!!!"

This earsplitting noise suddenly ripped through the speakers and filled the room with a sound that I can only describe as Bob Dylan being water-boarded. It lasted for a good 6 seconds, causing me to tense suddenly and my masseuse to put inadvertent pressure on a nerve. I joined Bob Dylan with a startled, "GAH!" and then suddenly the room went quiet and the tinkly music resumed. My masseuse paused for a moment and then, satisfied that this audible Sherman Tank wouldn't return, continued her work.

This went on throughout the hour. The speakers suddenly blasting feedback through the foresty noises every five or so minutes, me tensing in response and the masseuse, similarly startled, responding with intense pressure on various parts of my body and me shouting, "OHOWAHHH!" like a crippled walrus whenever she did. This was not exactly the relationship I had hoped to form with this masseuse. A flagrant and unflattering display of nudity followed by my flailing around on her table like I was being gnawed at by fireants.

Finally, I could feel her wrapping up. After a particularly long solo via the speakers and her muttering what I can only imagine where some Spanish swear words under her breath, she moved behind my head and started clattering around in the cabinet that was back there. She had given up any pretense of trying to keep the room peaceful and banged a few doors open and shut, looking for WHAT, I had no idea. Finally the noise stopped, and through my eye pad, I could feel her leaning over me. After one deep breath, she made this little motion resulting in a tiny gong going binnnnnnnggggggggggggggg somewhere over my left breast. I assume that this gong nonsense was to signal the end of your peaceful hour. Instead, I felt like I needed to find a world wherein nothing moved and everything was silent.

I trudged upstairs to our room and Marc came in shortly after, having apparently joined Dignity down at the bar for drinks. He was luminous, happy, relaxed, shiny. I hated him for just a moment. I relayed the events of the past hour and when he finally stopped laughing, Tecate tinged tears rolling down his cheeks he said, "Well, I suppose that hour of suffering was better than dealing with intestinal warfare," making a sweeping gesture at the piles of pills and medications we had brought with us. A Metamucil tablet rolled onto the floor and settled in between some tiles. Then he said a magical, healing word, "Margarita?" The evening got MUCH better from there.

But I'll never be able to listen to Bob Dylan again without cringing, waiting for sudden pressure on my sciatica from some invisible elbow.