Chaos is dangerous

Not only did I miss The Bachelor: London Calling premier episode last week, I didn't even realize I missed it until a couple of nights ago.

Let's blame it on the fact that my kitchen and dining area looked like this for most of last week:


Luckily, I caught tonight's episode and will have comments posted shortly. Stay tuned...

Milestones

1. My haircutter told me at my last appointment that my hair is now even on both sides, and he no longer has to cut one side differently to camouflage an inconsistency. He was going to pop some champagne, but alas, no bubbly for me in my condition. (By the way, didn't it take forever to grow out my hair!? No one could tell there was any difference for some time now, but there was. The texture and density were different. Apparently it takes a while for blood supply to return to the follicles so they begin to function normally again. Who knew? Turns out my follicles were more traumatized than I was.)

2. I just drove on the highway for the first time this past weekend. I didn't feel entirely comfortable because turning my head from side to side still triggers the vertigo sensation, so switching lanes is a little unsettling. But it really was time - and it went fine. But if you see me on the roads in a little silver jetta - may want to keep your distance.

3. I cooked something last night. Terry is still in Argentina and I've already finished the package of English Muffins that was in the freezer (I've been getting home from work way too late to have the patience to wait for takeout), so I actually resorted to making something all by myself. Mac n Cheese with tuna and peas. I don't know if you would count this as cooking, but I do since I combined ingredients that didn't originally come together. Plus I had to use the stove top and several kitchen gadgets such as a slotted spoon, a can opener and a collander. Consider how desperate I am: last week I was still hungry after finishing some doggy bag chicken so I topped it off with three spoonfuls of chunky peanutbutter.

4. Terry has ordered the range for the kitchen. There is no turning back. After torturing for several months about whether the love of his life was a Thermador, a Blue Star or an American Range, he went with the American Range. They start ripping out our kitchen on March 10th. Seriously, could I have timed this worse? Taking chaos in stride is going to be an early life lesson for Baby Voltz. Here's a picture of the range. We might include this picture on the birth announcements.

There's a recession coming? Let's embark on an expensive renovation...

Being parents to be, it's normal that we're all wrapped up in nesting right now. Normally I'm the only one who cares about home design, but our kitchen project has dragged Terence onto the bandwagon. The lucky thing here is that we care about totally different things when it comes to this renovation, and our individual obsessions ensure that someone is paying attention to all aspects of this project. (By the way, several people have pointed out the unwise decision to kick off this project at this time. It's a game of chicken, and I'm at peace with the fact that I will be giving birth into a construction zone.)

Terry is the chef in our relationship. I think I've informed you all of this already, but to underscore the point I'll repeat that I have cooked exactly two dishes since I started dating Terry in 1995. I made Guinness based chili for the 1997 Super Bowl and a kick-a#$ lasagna from the Marcella Hazan cookbook for a 2007 holiday potluck gathering at the office. Twice in thirteen years. So perhaps it's my lack of experience that keeps making me call the "oven" a "stove". Terry corrects me with a combination of amusement and concern. Come on. Like he doesn't know what I mean. They're attached for the love of God...

God bless him, Terry has researched all the appliance choices for hours upon hours. He knows every detail about every feature available. Not understanding anything about the advanced functionality of a particular model, I almost wouldn't approve one of his choices because there was a 20 minute period where I thought the knobs only came in blue (you can buy a conversion kit for black or stainless. Design crisis averted.)

I care obsessively about the really important things like the hardware and the backsplash (which is GORGEOUS). Terry felt I was spending too much time comparing materials here - but I reminded him the backsplash will be the signature of the entire room. He rolled his eyes. (Our designer agrees with me, by the way. He felt my choice took the whole project "up to a new level.")

As for his obsession, after changing his mind several times, Terence has finally settled on the oven/stove he wants for our new kitchen. He's in absolute love because it has a ceramic broiler and some ridiculous amount of something called "BTUs". We have visited it on several occasions in multiple stores over the past month. Two weekends ago, we visited it twice on the same day in two different stores. In that same day I also dragged Terence to a Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn Kids, Calypso Home and Calypso Home Kids. We were exhausted by the end of the day - but not as tired as this guy waiting for the A train with me. He was snoring loudly - on my hearing side.

Circular logic

They say the first step toward overcoming an addiction is admitting you have a problem. It's been pointed out to me that I may have an issue (thank you DM), but I don't think I have the strength to face it. Do I need an intervention?

My friend has a good design eye, and when he recently visited my apartment, he noticed a certain circular proclivity.








Do I have to stop the madness or should I embrace this tendency? Maybe it's just my thing. A signature, if you will.

Here's the problem. I love this deco inspired mirror with beveled edges and etched CIRCLES, and want to buy it for my bedroom. Should I just say no, or can I put my head in the sand and act like I don't have a problem?


Before you answer, you should consider the pattern on the last two dresses I bought:

What's in a label?

Early last week, a sense of urgency overtook me suddenly. I had a long project list, and it became crushingly clear that I could not possibly accomplish all my planned tasks in the time I had remaining. Too much Dr. Phil. Some of the things I did not get to:

• Order a wedding album (In September I will have been married for 8 years, and I have yet to order a single picture. Every once in a while sheer panic grips my soul in the middle of the night, and I call my photographer the very next day to make sure she hasn't moved. By the way - we paid for the album 8 years ago.)


• Get a pair of suit pants I bought last April tailored at the dry cleaner on my corner


• Update my resume (note to employers and Clients: I have no intention of going anywhere, trust me. I just think it's responsible to keep it updated before you forget what you've accomplished)


• Clean out my email in box


• Reorganize my linen closet


• Get three aboriginal paintings framed - I purchased them at a gallery opening at least a year ago. They've been rolled up inside my linen closet ever since.


• Get the locks on my front doors changed

With the remaining hours of my medical leave quickly seeping through my fingers, I panicked. I had to accomplish something fast. I chose a job that would bring disproportionate satisfaction, although it could not be completed alone.

After riding his bicycle home from work as he does most days, Terry had not even put his knapsack down when I pounced, "Would you kill or maim me if I asked you to help me move all the leftover paint from the bedroom renovation project into the storage cube downstairs right now?" God love him, he replied with no hesitation, "I will not kill or maim you. I'm already sweaty - might as well just do it." (Having been in similar situations many times, he knows resistance is futile. Still, he's a saint.)

After two elevator trips to the cube and removal of everything in the storage area blocking access to the plastic tub at the very bottom (already half full of leftover tile, paint and grout for theoretical future patch jobs), I realized we didn't have a marker. "Terence, you have to wait - I have to get something so we can label these cans." Patience just about worn out, "Not now." Unassuaged, "If we don't do it now we never will, and then we might as well not keep this paint at all." Voice tight as a drum, "Ok. Go get a marker." I ran.

Minutes later, sitting on a Coleman camping stove with Sharpie in hand, I silently pondered what to write. After several quiet minutes, I voiced my concerns, "Terence, do you think it's pretentious if I label this can Master Bedroom? Our bedroom is no different from the second bedroom. It's not like it's any bigger or we have a bathroom inside. The bathroom is in the hall. Should I call it Joan and Terry's bedroom? That seems kind of strange. Like maybe there are other people living in our apartment too."

Terence got that look. I've seen it many times. It's a subtly combined flash of terror, amusement and resignation that seems to say, "I've married an insane person. What to do?"

His response was so lucid and it instantly told me I had to go back to work whether I felt ready or not, "Exactly who are you worried will think your label on an old paint can in a plastic tub at the bottom of our locked storage cube in the basement is pretentious?"

PS: I went with quotation marks to acknowledge the conceit: "Master" Bedroom

Help for those who can't help themselves

Ever notice how often the very people suffering from a particular grievance are the same ones unable to take advantage of the solution? Like those signs in the subway that offer help to illiterates. Simply call the 1800 for a range of free services. If only they could read the signs, I'm sure we could solve the problem.

While mostly literate, apartment dwellers have their own set of grievances. We love the way we live, yet it's hard not to acknowledge small points of suffering compared to our house-living compatriots. Points of envy:
- Built in parking (aka: driveways)
- Washers and dryers
- Gardens
- Outside grills
- Stairs
- Storage: garages, attics and basements

Yet more proof that in life those that have just keep getting, take a look at this cool idea. If you have stairs, convert them into even more storage. Perhaps a place to store your barbecue tools and garage door openers. Bastards.

Here's a link to the blog where I saw this:

http://adesignerseye.blogspot.com/2007/05/indulgences_27.html

Nesting: surgical side effect

There is something about being home all the time during the cold light of day that forces me to notice all the unfinished home improvement projects around this apartment. We have lived here happily for two and a half years, but after staring at these walls day in and day out for many weeks, all of a sudden I can not tolerate our undecorated bedroom. Not for one more MINUTE.

Why it's not a good idea to decorate while you are recovering from brain surgery: installing sconces is unbearably noisy when the walls in your bedroom are concrete. The demolition for these innocently unassuming swing arm lamps took a full day. Wires had to be run over the closet and down the next wall. Mmmm. Jackhammers. Soothing.

Another brain surgery decorating challenge: when you've got nothing but time on your hands, it's really hard to make decisions. Should the trim be decorator's white or super white? Took almost half an hour of staring at two nearly identical paint chips to decide.

When it comes to these tough decisions regarding the interior design of our living space, poor Terence, like most normal guys, could not care less. Yet I insist that he take part. If I sense he's just humoring me, I get really indignant: "You live here, too! You need to participate. I can't do this all myself." Terence knows the truth. I want to do it all myself, and then I want him to agree with my decisions without letting on that he's not heard a word I've said and is actually watching the Mets game. Assurance is very comforting, but not if it's not heartfelt. Like any good account guy, he's learned how to fake sincerity.

In choosing the color for the walls, I spread out about 107 (no lie) different paint chips for Terry - just what he was hoping to come home to at the end of a long day. He looked at me with a puzzled and weary expression and said, "Aren't these all the same color?" I am horrified. "No, Terence! This is a wide spectrum all the way from 'bland' to 'obnoxious.' We have to find exactly the one that is sophisticated without being boring. I don't think you grasp the gravity of this decision. We will have to wake up to this color every day." He realizes his mistake and says, "Oh,you are so right. Let me take a closer look," as he switches the TV behind me to the game.

After a lengthy elimination process, (Terry and) I selected two shades to paint in a patch on the wall for the final decision. When the sample size of my favorite color came home from the hardware store, I was confronted with a mortifying "stamp of approval" right there on the top of the jar. Of the millions of colors I could have selected, I chose the exact blue from the "Pottery Barn Summer of 2007" collection. You've probably noticed, this is their new thing. They specify the Benjamin Moore colors featured in their catalogs. Smart. But if I go with this color it means I will have a bedroom that is the exact same color as everyone in America who redid their house this summer. Whether this caused prejudice or not, it's impossible to say, but when I saw the color on the wall I did not like it. Pedestrian taste crisis narrowly avoided.

During this particular project, Terry did express genuine interest once. I was thinking of white wood blinds behind drapery panels for the window treatment. Terry asks a practical question, "Is white going to block the light out as well as a darker color would? The sun rises on that side of the building." Logically, I think out loud that wood is an opaque material so it shouldn't matter what color it is. On the other hand, some light will inevitably seep around the edges of the blinds. Wouldn't a dark color absorb more of that overflow? After a few minutes of arguing both sides of this debate myself, I ask Terry to weigh in now that I've laid out the myriad points to consider. He looks at me and says, "I would rather sleep with sun in my eyes for the rest of my life and pay double for the blinds themselves than discuss this for one more minute. I am so sorry I brought it up. Let's go with white." Long pause..."Ok. But are you saying you want white because you want white or because you think I want white and you want me to think you want white? Terence, are you listening to me? Can you turn off the Mets game?"

As seen on TV

I was speaking to a friend who is convalescing with a major back injury suffered in a recent boating mishap. She and I agreed that infomercials and online shopping are an important part of any recovery worth its salt.

My new favorite item: the Stick Up Bulb. Come on, you know you've seen that guy on TV and been tempted. Well, I was bored enough and fixated enough on nesting (nothing like being home all the time with no formal job to do to create problems to solve) to actually order some. Yes, I am not ashamed to say I spent $68 by the time I ordered all the extra bulbs I could get on deal. They arrived on Friday, and I LOVE them. I'm sticking them in closets, under the stairs, etc. and the light they are shedding is bringing me a disproportionate sense of accomplishment.

If anyone from The Stick Up Bulb is reading my blog, call me. I can help you redesign your website (did you do that on PowerPoint?).


If I've convinced you, order here (I am not getting any kickbacks):
http://www.thestickupbulb.com/stickupbulb_v1_10/?tid=1150&vd=1