the kitchen continues

On those days when I feel like I'll just never get done with the kitchen, I take a look back, and see how far I've come...

 

 

At possession, July 2009. About five minutes before we started refinishing the cabinets.

April 2010, with new appliances, counter, and tile. Awesome linoleum remains.

September 2010, outlet covers done and window trim refinished. Curtains to come. And then, the kitchen will be "done."

the refrigerator manifesto

There are two words that can send an icy stab of horror into the most dauntless heart:
community refrigerator.
Ahhhh!

Sorry about that. I lost control for a moment there.
But having just spent waaay too long rummaging through the industrial-sized company refrigerator for my (very brightly colored and distinct) lunch bag only to find it astronomically removed from its previous location, I'm a little...out of patience. It's time to do something. Something...drastic. And somehow, this feeling is...familiar. It's time for the return--the return of...

The Kitchen Nazi!

Not since the hazy golden days of Stryker Cottage '03 has this fearsome creature truly been beheld, standing proudly--sword in one hand and spatula in the other--with her iron-fisted policies of cleanliness and order clearly posted on the wall behind her!
But it might just be time for her return. At the very least, time for her to write a few new rules for the company refrigerator. Harsh? Perhaps. But effective. As always.

The Refrigerator Manifesto

Whereby all personnel who utilize the company refrigerator do so through a wish to keep their food at the appropriate temperature, in sanitary condition, and conveniently accessible:

1. Each individual must use a designated food container to hold all of their items. This container may not be generic (as in a plastic Meijer bag), insulated (seriously--those keep your food cold without a fridge), or incapable of being moved about without spilling its contents. Clearly labeling each designated food container with the name of its owner is also strongly suggested.
2. All food must be properly contained. No open packaging. Not even in your designated food container. If you periodically cannot eat the whole fruit cup in one sitting, keep a ziploc bag in your food container to tuck the cup into until your next nibbling. And get a bigger stomach, for the love of all that's holy.
3. No loose items such as pieces of fruit, tubs of margarine, or bottles of salad dressing will be tolerated. All items must be fully contained in each individual's designated food container.*
     *The only exception to this rule is large items such as two-liters of soda and large cartons of milk or other beverages. These may be left on the bottom shelf--provided they are clearly labeled and unexpired.
4. Large, appropriately sealed, and clearly labeled takeout containers will be tolerated temporarily--provided they are not fish, and are removed within six hours of their arrival to the community refrigerator. If they are fish, and left for more than two days--God help you.
5. If it becomes necessary to move another individual's designated food container, it is expected that the mover will do their best to return the container to its original placement. If this cannot be done, a grid system will be initiated, with each individual's designated food container receiving a number that corresponds to a section of the shelving. "Parking tickets" will be issued to all who cannot respect the grid system.
6. "Community" does not mean "communal." Whether an item is labeled or not, if you eat or drink it without explicit permission, you are stealing.* If you are stealing, you're a jerk. If you're a jerk, we get to lock you in the supply closet overnight.
     *I can't believe this one even has to be listed, honestly. 
7. The community refrigerator will be scrubbed down once a week. All legitimate items will be returned to the shelves; all illegitimate items will piled up in the parking lot, doused with gasoline, and lit on fire. Or thrown away. Whatever.


And remember: if the Kitchen Nazi ain't happy, ain't no one happy. But if she is happy--she bakes! It's a win-win. Sort of.

the day of birth...once again again

I remembered blogging about my birthday last year. I wondered if I had managed to do it every year since I began this beast...and the answer is yes. Wow.
Even stranger--my first birthday post was my 26th birthday. Geesh.
I'm 29 now. I've been writing this blog since 2007. Holy wa. I'm in my fourth year of blogging. Granted, sometimes I go weeks between posts, but...
Back up the truck. I'm 29. How did that happen? Objectively, I know how...but...dang. All of a sudden, that number seems a lot bigger than 28. I liked 28. It was divisible by 7. 29 is...not. Freakin' prime number.
Then again, what's wrong with being prime? I mean, think Optimus Prime. Yeah. Awesome.
I feel better now.
No, really. It's been a good year. I've owned my house for about 14 months (not that I'm counting) and I really enjoy it. I like having projects.
I've pushed a little harder at some of my weak places, like my social life, and I think I've been decently brave in getting out there and hanging out with new people. Go me.
And this past summer, I've had the best bruises from softball and frisbee. Ever. I have to say--and if you know me, then you know I always have bruises somewhere--that these were groundbreaking. I actually went to bed once with an ice pack strapped to my shin.
And I gloat about this? Well, yeah. Because it means that I'm not holding back or half-assing my way through. (Sure, "half-ass" can be a verb. I just did it. So there. It's set as a gerund, actually, for those who care.)
Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more childish I am free to be. Ha.
Paradoxically, I think it's a sign of maturity. I'm no longer feeling so compelled to act like an adult--emphasis on act. I am an adult. Period. And a lady.
Remember that, ok, the next time you see me covered in grass stains.
And that's enough deep thought for today.

pressure? what pressure?

Somehow, I’ve been working on a little more young adult/teen material than usual this week, and you know what that does? It make me think about my own spent youth—who I was, who I am, where I’m going—how my life and personality have been shaped. Things I’ve done—and things I haven’t done. Things I have barely been tempted to do, that seem to drive so much teen trouble.


Case in point: fitting in. Being a vital part of the group. Any group. Identifying myself with a particular clique versus another clique.

Not my thing. (Even in junior high, when I wandered about basically friendless and nose-deep in books. Throw in a couple tree forts, lots of grass stains, and still-developing physical coordination, and you get the idea.)

Perhaps that’s noble. Or would be—if I’d done it intentionally.

But I seem to be lacking that thing—whatever that thing is—the thing that prompts people to try super hard to “fit in.”

Not that I wouldn’t do it. (Like I said—I’m not quite noble.) Sometimes it sounds nice, though it’s less vital now that I’m all big and grown-up. (Ish.) I just don’t seem to know how to go about it. So I really don’t. Not deeply, anyway. I maintain socially acceptable behavior, no worries, but that’s not the same thing. You dig? Or am I off my rocker?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

And I do have friends, I promise. I like people. Some more than others, natch, but I like people. (Quit laughing. I do. Most of the time.) I like to hang out and laugh and dance and play.

But trying to be popular? Nope. Not me.

The same with peer pressure. I can’t really say I’ve ever felt pushed to be a certain way, to adopt a certain personality. I’m sure it has affected me—I’m human—but perhaps the effects have been more subtle, below the radar.

Let’s put it this way: you say “peer pressure,” and I look up and go, “What? Huh? Oh, look—something shiny.”

Either I’m socially maladjusted or I’m way ahead of the curve. Eh. Who knows?

Perhaps I should join the “I don’t quite fit in” club.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. I love the irony.