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Lady love

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After 8 weeks with no kitchen a gentle despair sets in. You think it won’t happen to you—you’re steady, you meditate—but you’re wrong. The absence of function really starts to erode your ease. The kitchen remodel blues commence. 

You thought, perhaps, ‘washing dishes in the bathtub will be an adventure.’ Like going camping or joining the circus. But instead, cleaning dishware in the same room that you pee sort of starts to bring you down. 

photo of dishes sitting on a bathmat on the floor
The ultimate lay flat shot

Sadly, all those cliches you heard about kitchen remodels were true:

  • The freight company will hold your wife’s range hostage out of spite
  • Cabinets will arrive late and when they finally arrive, they are damaged. Cabinet ETA will remain unknown
  • The new washing machine will malfunction, flooding one side of the kitchen subfloor
  • An appliance delivery truck will destroy 10 feet of your new neighbor’s retaining wall
  • Sewage water will overflow through an uncapped plumbing line where the sink once was. The other side of the kitchen floor will flood 
  • Skipping showers will become all too reasonable (because whoever showers has to wash the dishes at the same time)
  • Your meals will be mostly cereal (this is a secret perk, actually)

You begin to believe that the kitchen remodel will, in fact, never be complete and that the nice, but essentially unknown, men will be in your home forever. You may even start to think you never had a stove or cabinets—and that plastic sheeting has always been your home decor. 

If this is you, dear friend of little faith, please stay strong. One day, maybe even one day this year, you’ll have a kitchen ceiling, floor and cabinets once more. 

Photo of a woman and a dog standing in the middle of a gutted kitchen, surrounded by plastic sheeting
Ruby dog and wifey
*All this to say, complaining is insane. A home to remodel is a luxury and a privilege. But goddamn if I don’t feel uncomfortable. *

Also, home remodeling is really funny when you’re not handy. Despite my dad’s best efforts, and my wife’s sincerest hopes, I am not the tool belt-wearing lady lover who’s clever with an electric drill. Although I did obsessively research best paint colors for north rooms. 

Scooter, my old man dog, has recently embraced incontinence as a lifestyle choice. 

Poor little dude. I took him to the vet, and they ran a $300 test to tell me if there’s a thing to do, but in the meantime my reactions to taking him out to pee every 30 minutes make me feel like an asshole

My kid parent friends are noble. They stay up nights and feed babies and tend to sick kids and clean barf out of beds and I never hear them say things like, “can I just put him in a kennel?”

I love him like crazy. I don’t want him to suffer, but I also don’t want to wake up three times each night to let him out to urinate. And those times that he doesn’t whine to be let out, he just pees in his bed. My mom friends (I don’t know about all dudes, but among my hetero couple friends, it is really only the ladies who are doing this work) seem to be more focused on their baby’s well-being than urine ruining their carpet, while I constantly am concerned about Scooter pee leaking through his bed. 

Unto you a doggy is born

It all started two weeks ago while my wife was out of the country. I was having an emotional melt (not directly related to being alone, but certainly the loneliness compounded it) and woke up wanting comfort (poor me!) and looked to Scooter for morning snuggles. Instead of a soft and fluffy coat I found his bed soaked and his fur drenched in pee. I felt it really lent a type of gravitas to the depths of my self-pity to get on my hands and knees and blot urine stains from our new carpet (!) instead of crying softly in bed over the weight of my feelings. Next, a de-pee fur bath. I even tried to blow dry him, but he was not interested. 

Later that day, I face-timed a friend to recount my sorrows, and she happened to be at the doctor’s office. She was waiting for an appointment for her littlest one, due to the fact that her three kids, all under age seven, were up the night before barfing and she had spent the night comforting them, bathing them, and cleaning up vomit. She was tired but mostly just concerned about her daughters’ health. What I mean to say, she was more concerned with her kids than herself. 

So.

I feel like there’s a lesson here:

  • It’s great that I’m not a kid mom
  • Maybe I could pray for patience

*Just so you know, I am really sweet to Scooter and always tend to all his needs, but inside I secretly wish my dog brought me bed coffee and fed himself. *

Redwood glamour dog