So, why are ‘cupboards’ called ‘cupboards’ since they don’t just hold cups? I mean, they hold plates, and spices, and other elements of a household, so cupboard seems a bit limiting.
I only mention the matter due to the fact we are in the process of not only clearing out cupboards, but also drawers, since our ‘big kitchen reno’ begins Monday. And in that context I have both been tasked with shifting stuff from the kitchen to its temporary domicile in the dining room that now looks like a huge yard sale venue.
The problem with shifting stuff is that we have too much of it. The accumulation staggers me. We have both been married before and we both totted along items from our past histories. And in reference to my comment about ‘cup’boards, this morning I have been moving actual cups. We seem to have a surfeit of handled containers, some of them going back decades. We have travel souvenir cups from our own safaris, as well as ones from earlier trips with other spouses. In that regard, Wendy’s mean nothing to me and mine mean nothing to her. I mean, damn it, these are just receptacles for a cuppa joe. Why do we have so many and why do we deem to retention of same to be important?
So, what I have done is separate them into ‘musts’, ‘maybes’ and ‘culls’. Of the latter I am happy to get rid of them. But, my decisions might not sit happiily with Wendy. So, she will have to peruse them, as will I for mine. Do I really need to hold on to a souvenir cup from Smithers, BC, for example?
I won’t even get into the horrific chore of stripping the fridge of its 10,000 commemorative magnets I was rather proud of.
OK, that’s just the cups. Then there are the dishes. Again all sorts of superfluous plates and bowls. I mean, damn, there are only two of us. Why do we have so many?
Then on Monday the onslaught begins. New floor, new cabinets to replace the clunky old ones that I thought were OK – see picture — , new countertop, new (stainless steel, of course) appliances (with the new range being gas rather than electric), something that is called a ‘backsplash’ which wasn’t heretofore something I knew even existed yet was highly desirable to my good lady with mosaics that I fear will look and cost like the Hagia Sophia in Instanbul, new stove vent, and all of it moving into the cost realm of a small Eastern European country’s GNP. New kitchens don’t come cheap, by cracky. Supposedly it ups the resale value of the house because women (who make all such decisions) look first at the kitchen and then the bathroom. Both ends of the alimenary canal prevail in real estate and both must be inviting, it seems.
I must say I am not looking forward at all to the ensuing couple of weeks. In my trepidation the process will be a fortnight of hell, with stuff I cherish being ripped out, a lot of banging, and sawdust and noise and noxious fumes and little dollar signs ringing up in my eyes like they used to do in cash registers. Get your folks to tell you about old-fashioned cash registers, kids.
Meanwhile, I have to find a way to exit as much as possible, but also have to deduce what to do with Max at the time as he’ll probably be more disquieted than I will, despite the fact he isn’t paying for any of it. Never pays for anything, come to think of it. But, since it’s warm, I can’t take him out in the car while I go for interminable coffees. The lovely lady next door has said he can just go over to their place. He stays there when we go away, but I don’t like to impose, either.
Anyway, the die is now cast and I am sure we’ll work it out, but I am already feeling sweet nostalgia for our old kitchen that is doomed.