I left work quite late last night, so I decided to treat myself to some quality time working on developing my new relationship: the Probable New Home.
I stopped by Lowe’s for a minute. Three hours later, I staggered out, weak, hungry, dehydrated and clutching a fistful of paint chips, four pieces of tile and a crispy, curled-up dead spider.
Well, I wasn’t really clutching the spider, it was just kind of clinging to the side of my shoe. They really need to sweep more often in those places.
What? No, I’m not putting the cart before the horse. I resent your implication. I don’t think it’s relevant at all that I have no measurements for the bathroom that needs re-tiling. That I haven’t decided which rooms to paint, or have no knowledge of the exact color of the carpet/hardwood/tile already there that we’ll have to match. Or how big those rooms are. I mean, can’t a good paint guy make a solid estimate if I give him a nice description, like, “Well, it’s about, ummm, lessee, maybe 14 feet by, ummm, kind of like, 12 feet? Or a little bigger? Could be smaller though… and then there’s that little alcove-y like area, so add a bit for that. But subtract a smidge, because of those air vents”?
Details? Who needs details? This was simply comfort shopping, a treat after a long day toiling away in the hot, dusty fields of media relations.
D has no idea what she’s in for. Being as how I went tile-and-paint shopping while I was tired, cranky and hot, I felt the need to treat myself. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that, since my life is being completely upheaved (not a real word, but it is now ’cause I made it one) because of her job, that I get the hand-blown, hand-polished, hand-squared tiles that cost $783 per square millimeter. And the listello is crafted from small pieces of sea glass collected only from black-sand shores of a remote South Pacific island. Or that the floor tile I want has been painstakingly chipped out of a solid block of Arabescato marble by a tiny old Italian man with gnarled hands wielding an iron chisel. Or that the paint I’ve chosen has been developed by some designer guy whose clothes they don’t sell at Kohl’s and is sprinkled with tiny diamond chips.
Good thing D doesn’t read my blog.
One thing we’d decided (well, I had, anyway, since D still hasn’t seen the house) is that the appliances need to be swapped out. I couldn’t figure out why the homeowners had renovated the kitchen with black granite countertops, sweet antiqued cabinets and a contrasting dark-wood island, but left the white ovens, microwave, dishwasher and cooktop. I mean, it cries out for black appliances. Shouts, really.
Now I know.
Who knew that a cooktop to sit in the island would cost twice what I paid for the entire range at our last house? Geez, it’s smaller! It oughta cost less. And then there are the double ovens, which some crackhead has priced separately at double the price of a single oven, even though they’re obviously conjoined and should therefore be priced as one unit.
I thought I made that argument very persuasively to the nice young man at the store, at least until security showed up.
White appliances are nice, too, don’t you think? Wonder how much a can of black spray paint costs? I forgot to look.
There’s also gold (OK, J the Realtor keeps calling it “brass,” so I guess I should, too) trim on the bathroom shower. Don’t like it. Can’t make me keep it. But for some reason, these silly stores don’t have a nice, neat unit in a lovely box marked “Size: Fits Laurie’s New Bathroom Shower.” The ones they do have are marked with crazy stuff, like, “60 inches by 39 inches.” That’s not very helpful.
Wonder how much a can of silver spray paint costs?
The hardest part, other than finding the most expensive things in the store, was picking the paint. I spent many minutes torn between just the right shade to match the sea glass listello. Seafoam? Sea Mist? Sea Star? Sea Froth? Sea Spray? Sea Grass (not to be confused with Sea Glass)? Seagull? Seashell? Seahorse? Seaweed? (Eww.) Sea Port? Sea Haze? Sailor’s Sea? Baby Seal Black? (Double eww.) Seagrove? Seaside? Sea Cliff? Sea Isle? Sea Pine? Sea Wind? Seabrook? Sea Pearl? Deep Sea? Graceful Sea? Stormy Sea? Angry Sea? Sea to Shining Sea? Sea Dill? Jamaican Bay? Limesickle?
“Limesickle”? For real?
For the guest bedroom, it was a real struggle. Calming Cream? (Not a bad idea at any house with me in it.) Creamy Custard? Carlisle Cream? Creamy Satin? Creamy Satan? (Oops, wait, that’s a rock band I just heard on Pandora.)
Woodmont Cream? Creamy Peach? Cream Silk? Savory Cream? Tomato Cream? Bavarian Cream? Rich Cream? Cream Froth? Pumpkin Cream? Cream Puff? Banana Cream? Vanilla Cream? Brandy Cream? Apricot Cream? Cognac Cream?
Damn, I’m starving.
I could go on. And on. And on. But “Jamaican Bay” also reminds me of a frosty rum drink. I think I’m gonna go have one.