Love me, love my kitchen

Hot damn, I’m tired.

I’m headed out of town for work next week, which means I have only six days and 14 hours to pack up my entire kitchen so that Surrogate Dad can demo my ugly Starter Kitchen while I’m gone. It’s a tiny kitchen with the original 1950 cabinets, so new, fantastic cabinets will be a celebration of life, liberty and all that the American dream of homeownership has to offer.

Have I mentioned that I’m a pack rat? And that I have roughly 32 tons of crap stored in Starter Kitchen? Crap that I unpacked a mere six months ago?


So, tonight I packed up my grandma’s china and her antique cookie jars (only two – I’m not a total freak, thank you). Tomorrow, it’s on to glassware. I can do this. I think I can, I think I can.

In other news, I talked to parents last night. As usual, my dad’s reaction to stories of my non-existent love life was priceless. Upon hearing about my unfortunate discovery of He Who Shall Not Be Named’s match profile, my dad had this to say:

“Jesus. Of course you can be on match, too. Of course! Because you’ll never match up with a freak who’s looking for a Buddhist, Hindu or whatever that other one was.”

Taoist. Taoism evidently isn’t big in Ye Ol’ Hometown, population 11,000.

My mother’s comment was lovely as well:

“Oh, my. I guess being Episcopalian isn’t very exotic, now, is it?”


I also love the fact they wanted a blow-by-blow description of the new kitchen, despite the fact that my dad’s never even seen Starter Kitchen – and that listening to a description of remodeling is the audio version of watching paint dry. Sometimes I have a hard time relating to people who have strained relationships with their parents. This is an example of why.

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