New Kitchen/Final Details and Other Details

I woke up in a fog this morning. The man who loves me was out the door before I got my bearings, and I stumbled around for at least an hour wondering what was wrong with me. I think it might have been a dream that threw itself over me like a blanket, but I couldn't remember anything coherent. The nightmare that I had on Catalina--a certain someone shot me and several other people--keeps coming back to me. The sensation of that dream was so intense. The wound just below my heart and the doctor telling me that the bullet couldn't be removed--that I would just have to live with the pain. The physical ache was so palpable that, when I woke that morning, I thought maybe I'd fallen asleep on top of a pen or a pencil and that's why it was hurting so in the area of my rib cage, but no, it was just the dream. This morning's stupor was almost as upsetting. But I don't know why.

So today for whatever reason, I could barely function. Sitting down to write was out of the question. Opening the mail with the big brown envelope from the QDRO attorney not even the remotest possibility. So I ran errands. Did chores. Puttered. Nearly put the finishing touches on the KITCHEN PROJECT. Yesterday the electrician installed the second light bar---

which was necessary because the spotlights on the fixture in the main part of the room, we discovered, could not be aimed toward the sink without blinding whomever happened to be sitting at the bar. We can see to chop veggies now and wash dishes. Surgery could probably be performed in my kitchen if necessary. Maybe to remove a bullet. Or whatever.


And here's my finished chalkboard--frame and all, which I never got around to posting.

And now that wallpaper is completely unfashionable, I thought I'd put some up. I've never liked how my kitchen cabinets hang down below the opening between the kitchen and the dining room. It looks like a miscalculation to me, as in--oops--wow, we should have made that opening smaller so the backs of the cupboards wouldn't show. So I did this:

I think I like it. There are tiles above my stove that have a similar design. I'd never hung wallpaper before, so this was the right size project for a beginner. And I discovered something very handy. If you wear reading glasses, you can put them on upside down if you are doing "close work" that requires you to look up. But I might do this to the wallpaper:

Just cuz I like silvery things, I guess. And because I'm just looking for stuff to do rather than do the stuff I have to do. This evening I decided I wanted to live at the beach (again) and found THIS. I looked at houses just to be sure I wouldn't open my mail.

Every visit from my kids and grandkids could be a beach vacation if I lived there.

"Trailer for sale or rent...I'm a man of means, by no means, King of the Road..."

I hate the uppity descriptor "trailer trash." In a society where consumption is king, there's an innate prejudice against people who make do with less.  

My sister lived in a trailer for the first several years of her marriage. I was twelve years old; not too far from having packed away my Barbie dolls, and to me, the trailer was like a Barbie Dream House  on wheels. The wheels are a key component, I think. Mobility is the antidote to being tied down. Who the heck doesn't want to pull up stakes and head for the highway now and then?

I got to live in a trailer my junior year when the enrollment of my college skyrocketed. In a stop-gap measure a dozen or so trailers were hauled onto campus complete with gas barbecues installed in the tiny yards. My front windows faced a stand of giant evergreens, and the kitchen, dining,  and living rooms were wide open to one another so the place seemed spacious. The bathroom was set up like a motel bathroom with the sink in its own separate alcove in the hall outside the toilet and shower. Perfect for  four college girls sharing one mirror. Even then I would have liked to hook my little home up to a truck and pull it down the road just for the adventure.

Nowadays, trailers are known as mobile homes or manufactured homes. My brother has lived and worked in a big mobile home park for decades at a fraction of the cost it would cost to live in a regular house. My mother lives with him, and its narrow hallways and efficient layout are perfect for a somewhat frail 86-year-old. As my brother recovers from hip replacement surgery, the compact floor plan is good for him, too. A narrow hallway  less than the width of your wingspan is great if you are unstable or hurting. Too much space is the enemy of the old and the impaired, but the American  dream tempts us constantly with more and more as if down-sizing were an admission of defeat.

I visit my brother's place regularly now that my mom lives here. During this stay I've resolved to walk in the evenings and traverse every street in the mobile home park. What has struck me so far is that within the confines of the park, there are neighborhoods with their own character. I've already picked out my street--where I would live if I lived here. For some reason, I have fantasized  about living just about every place I've ever been. I sometimes wonder if it's some kind of disorder. Promiscudomilcilitis is how I think of it.

One of the distinctions between neighborhoods here has to do with lawn ornaments. I'll write about that tomorrow. If I haven't hooked this place to a truck and pulled it off somewhere.