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The heat is on and it is quarter-to-three in the morning.  I am in my red-and-black checked flannel nightgown and am wearing some knitted socks with jingly wreaths on the side of them.   And, I’m about to make some friggin’ hot cocoa.

Yeah, it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

(Don’t vomit.  I know it’s not even Halloween yet!  But, we are on that holly jolly slippery slope to Merryland!!!)

(I am a Christmas freak by the way.)

In the spirit of almost-Christmas and in my new attempts to look at the light at the end of the tunnel, I am going to talk about our kitchen as if I were to actually like it.

The new and improved look.

I believe– and I can’t be certain without looking back and quoting myself directly– that I, only several young months ago, referred to my husband as a deranged Adderal-driven handy man.  (I later took that back.)  I also referred to our home– possibly more than once–as a modern day version of Amityville.  (I don’t think I did take that one back.)

I don’t know how much I’ve written about our kitchen.  (You’re probably sick of hearing about it.)  Or, how in depth I’ve described the utter hell that our kitchen has put me through.  (Have you read Dante’s Inferno?)  But, nine months ago, when we had a pre-toddler who couldn’t tell the difference between a cheese stick and a nail, and I was washing sheetrock dust off of toys and dishes in our only bathtub, and we had no working appliances except a microwave that was hoisted up on TV stand in the living room, things seemed pretty damn dreary.

And, unfortunately, the kitchen still isn’t, well, fixed.

But, I am committed to looking on the side of joy!  Oh yes, I am.  I was just able to warm some milk on the electric range and am now enjoying perhaps the best cup of hot cocoa that I have ever had.  (Double Chocolate Hot Chocolate Mix by Indulge by Shonfeld’s if you are interested.)

We have a sink now and some countertops and the fridge is back where it should be and not by the front door.  The floor, while it still has some missing pieces, is mostly glued back together and is fitted with natural Italian stone. (Though I preferred the hardwood.   Still, I’ve promised not to be negative.)

Those are all great things.  A lot to be happy about.  Here ye!  Here ye!  The kitchen that I did not ask to be remodeled, that was a pile of ashy, wall-less mess when I came home from a three-day vacation in Connecticut, is now beginning to resemble a kitchen in an actual home.

Sip. Sip. Sip.

Oh yes, stay positive.

You may not think so, but I have changed my tune.    Now when I’m in therapy (and no, for you new readers, it was not the kitchen that sent me there) and my therapist asks “What do you like about the kitchen?”, I no longer say “not a damn thing” but rather “well, I think I like the back splash.”

The back splash.

The apple of my culinary eye.

Our back splash.  Our baby.

You see, now, when I begin to get anxious or angry or livid or on damn hot fire, I can just breathe in deeply, think about Christmas, and look at our back splash.  It is the one thing in the kitchen that seems to make sense.  It looks hopeful.  It has potential.  It screams a certain level of pure artistry.

Even unsuspecting visitors who walk into a home that appears to be solid on the outside but is, in reality, all sorts-of oddly jumbled up and gooey on the inside, comment on the back splash.  (I don’t know what I mean by describing the interior of our house as gooey.  But, it seemed to fit the overal feeling I get when I walk inside.)

“Sorry for the mess,” I’ll say.

“Ohhh, but the back splash,” they’ll return.

The back splash, that fine looking piece of unfinished business, has become my mantra; my beam of hope.   If I’m not in the mood to make love or even snuggle, I look inward and visualize the back splash and it helps, oh how it helps.

(You can tell that it is three in the morning.  I’m talking all sorts-of gobbeldy goop.  I don’t actually envision the back splash when confronted with any sort-of sexual situation.)

Still, I am happy to have something to hang on to when I’m feeling glum.  Because, in reality, there are lots of good things happening in our home.  Silas’s Thomas the Train track spread all along our living room floor and hallway is one.  The fact that Paul and I are beginning to work as a team again and not a pair of autonomous freaks is another.  The reality that our home is starting to be filled with music and theater and dancing and laughing again is one big one.

And, yeah, it’s about to be Christmas.

So, three cups of holiday cheer to finding a place in your home that feels like peace even amid the ugly chaos. 

(If you’re having a hard time finding one, you are welcome to try conjuring up mine.   I won’t even get jealous.)

 

 

 

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 18th, 2009 at 9:28 am and is filed under On Amityville & Spousal Breakdowns. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.