Honestly, I'm starting to like it warm.

Once upon a time, Big Dude and I remodeled our kitchen. Not remodeled in the sense of "change out the counter tops and buy new cabinet handles,"  but more like "rip out five layers of flooring, 90 years of wallpaper changes, gut the place down to the studs and try not to inhale too much plaster dust."

I was going to post pictures of the demolition and rebuilding, but then you know what would happen, right?  I'd spend two hours looking for pictures, then two hours cussing at the scanner, then decide to do it later, and POOF six months has passed and there's no blog post. So youse guys are just going to have to trust me on this without photographic evidence, kapeesh?

In any case, much as I do with all projects, I made a big ol' wish list of everything I'd want if I could have everything.  That wish list kitchen kicked ass. I miss it. But after whittling it down with budget considerations, I realized the fireman pole had to go, along with the built in espresso machine with wifi so I could email it to make me coffee.

One thing that I decided I could NOT live without, however? A beer fridge. Now, if you enjoy beer as much as I do and of course you don't, you'd understand. If you are a normal person, you call it a "beverage refrigerator."  I decided to justify it with the fact that it could hold pies at Thanksgiving. Obviously, then, it was FOR THE CHILDREN.  My passionate longing for said fridge was exacerbated by the fact that for four long months during the construction, we used an old dorm-sized beer fridge covered with stickers as our only fridge. It sat in the dining room and had to hold beer, food, milk, chicken nuggets, beer. Also beer. And I just wanted to reward myself with a little spreading-out when the project was done.

The little extra fridge just for mommy's beers then turned into a whole wonderful area for mommy. The end of the kitchen had held a tiny sunroom, we took down the walls and I imagined a space with a comfy chair, my own television, a beer fridge and a wine fridge, maybe a plant and some books... I would start dinner and then recline, ever so lady-like with a cocktail while my pots bubbled happily. I knew then, that this area was non-negotiable. Under cabinet bread warmers would be sacrificed, it must be included.

And so it came to be.

On the left, beer fridge. In the center, TV. On the right, wine fridge.  Across the way, girl-sized leather recliner. Ahh.

And it was very good.  I never actually sat in the chair and watched TV while pots bubbled, but a lot of other people did. And after some time, I totally forgot how expensive it is to order a custom-sized beverage refrigerator.

Hmm. Let's have a closer look. What's that next to the recycling bin? A BB gun? Huh. Figures. And what's that indentation on the beautiful fancy recycling bin? Looks to be about the width of a teenager's shoe. No one knows why.

Look! Up above! Mommy's half yard glass. It makes her so happy she almost can forget about the dent in the stainless steel recycling bin.

 So, it wasn't totally my space. That's cool. Other people live here, too. I can't just claim corners all for myself.  At least I still had my sweet little beer fridge, just for me, with a pretty cherry door. I heart you, little beer fridge.

What treats await? Cold frosty barley pops, praytell?

Afterall, Big Dude's beers were not invited to my civilized in-house beer fridge. They could stay out in the garage...in the fridge he'd brought home from work, 10 years ago. Icky.

No pretty stainless steel recycling bin for you, old dumb beer fridge. You can sit under the city-issued purple one, in between the Swiffer mop thing and the dog food. Here, have another ironic sticker.

 But all fairy tales must end, don't they?  Recently, I went to pretty little beer fridge and her stores were less than frosty. Nay, they were oddly lukewarm.

"Gol-darned kids!" I proclaimed. "Messing with my little turny dial! I need this bitch at a 7!"

But she was at 7.

So I turned her to 9.

She sighed and shuddered her last breath.

I wept.

My beautiful, lovely, wonderful, feminine, custom-made, suitable for indoors beer fridge had died.

I don't think I'm being overly dramatic when I say taking warm beers out of her was one of the saddest times of my life.

 Now, as I sit and wait for a repairperson to bring her back to life, which I'm sure will be a completely affordable experience since the warranty has expired and all her parts are custom... I lean on the hood of my car and enjoy a perfectly chilled beer. 

You don't always have to dance with the purtiest girl, I guess.

Okay, okay, I'll give you another sticker. 

Turns out, I've always been sort of an a-hole.

Yeah, I know I've not been here very much, sorry 'bout that. Doesn't seem to have stopped the world from moving forward. Although...there have been some seriously weird weather patterns that can only probably be explained by the lack of me tapping on a keyboard.

Nevertheless.

I was digging through old papers recently looking for something important and instead found a folder from my first semester at college. I was not good looking enough to not get any classes I really wanted, so was stuck in anything that had an opening, including a German class that met at 8:00 AM. Every. Freaking. Day, and a 300 level course called "Science, Technology & Public Policy." It was taught by someone who was most surely a relative of James Earl Jones - either that or his voice coach - because they sounded exactly the same. He made a lot of big bold statements and afterwards would survey the class, looking us each in the eye and say,

"Questions?"

"Comments?"

"Concernnnnns?"

The rest of the class usually had at least a question. The bolder ones had comments. A few would even sometimes come up with a concern. I generally was just trying not to be noticed. Which was difficult, because there were 9 people in that class. Eight of them were over 21 years old, wearing varying layers of tie-dyed global patterns or ironic t shirts with Army surplus cargo shorts, unshaven legs and faces and smelled of patchouli. One of them was 18, had braces, a Duran Duran asymmetrical haircut, excess eyeliner, Esprit overalls, multiple black rubber braceleets and smelled of Love's Babysoft.

In between lectures, Professor James Earl Jones' Brother would assign reading and expect a written evaluation, so in the folder I found several word processor'ed attempts at sounding intelligent, obviously with a great deal of assistance from a thesaurus. And then I found this one - handwritten in class as a quiz.


It would be incredibly difficult to call this book compelling, perhaps even scandalous to use the word "interesting" when describing it. In fact, it would be most appropriate to call Dorothy Nelkins'  Controversy "kindling" rather than "literature." There are many texts in this world that are difficult to trudge through. There are a great number of tomes which do not appeal to anyone. Perhaps Nelkin was raised in a lifeless, loveless library of such volumes, surrounded only by her captors and an occasional visit by a sadistic dentist. In any case, her book sucks. Questions? Comments? Concerns?

And the professor's comment below:

I like you. B+

It was the only class I attended regularly that year.