We're not going to have a kitchen sink for seven to ten days. If that's not something you don't want to hear coming from your husband's mouth while he's holding a sledgehammer, then I don't know what is. Or perhaps you would prefer him not to be holding the sledgehammer in the first place. I know I would, because then my kitchen wouldn't look like it does right now, which is like this:
And it's going to look like that for the next seven to ten days. Did I mention the seven to ten days? Yeah, it's going to look like that. Well, apart from the man holding the sledgehammer, that is. That man has had quite enough sledgehammer time, thank you very much.
No seriously. Put it down. You are having way too much fun with this.
Our weekend of demolition started off at Lowe's on Friday night, where we have---I kid you not---made actual friends in the flooring department, that's how often we're there. Our best friend is called Henry and I'm pretty sure he thinks we're stalking him. "Oh, hey guys!" he says when he spots us, but you can see the faint fear in his eyes, the question mark ("again?") as he calculates whether to run as far as he can from us or approach us carefully, like you'd approach a jumper on a bridge, reaching slowly for the box-cutter in his apron pocket. "Hi Henry!" we say, "It's us! We're back! We'd like to look at the canyon ranch slate for the fifty-eighth time, if that's okay with you!"
Saturday was a billion degrees---summer is just getting started in San Francisco---and I spent the day in our backyard in a tank top, spray painting furniture and slowly asphyxiating my elderly Chinese neighbors who were trying to enjoy the sunny weather in their own backyard and kept coughing, pointedly, every few minutes. I don't want to boast or anything, but I'm pretty sure I have a future as a spray paint artist. I mean, I'm kind of awesome at it. It's not exactly hard to be awesome at spray painting, of course---the steps are basically a) hold the can, b) push the button---but I found it very enjoyable all the same. I think maybe I should have worn a mask though, because when we met our friends Alison and Nathan for dinner at Zero Zero that night, I'm willing to bet, looking back on it, that there wasn't actually a lime green giraffe in the corner of the restaurant. I did have a very interesting conversation with my fork, though. It was winking at me all night.
The other thing I did this weekend---apart from buying a ten-foot vintage map for ten bucks after spotting it at a yard sale from a moving car (I am, like, the deal-whisperer of vintage maps)---was to make the world's most enormous chalkboard in my kitchen, and let me tell you, if you are a Type-A list-maker like myself, you should make one of these immediately because it will be the best thing that ever happened to you.
Look! Look at that! SO MUCH SPACE TO WRITE STUFF. This is a kind of crappy photo of it---also, please do not look too far into the background and see that we still have unpacked boxes sitting on the living room floor--but it's going to look fantastic in the end, I think, once the rest of the kitchen is finished and I can use it for things like winsome quotes and recipes and impromptu loveheart doodles, rather than practical stuff like "join YMCA." I should clarify, by the way, that the item towards the top that says "hang schoolboys" refers to a black and white print we have of some 1940s schoolboys, and not.....well, not to anything more sinister. Just figured I'd clear that one up quickly. You know, in case you were about to call the police.