Tag Archives: Home Improvement

Floored

img_1999Against all logic and understanding, I tolerated the most hideous-looking carpet known to man for what seemed like an eternity. It stretched an expanse measuring more than 600 square feet from living room to dining room—a wall-to-wall nightmare that everyone knew was pink. Not salmon. Coupled with the abundance of brass and ugly-as-sin wallpaper we found throughout the house on move-in day 1997, it was as if the eighties had lifted the roof and vomited every bit of horrible décor that had ever been imagined.

And because the universe hates me, it took more than two decades to convince my husband that it was high time for a change. Never mind my incessant reminders that our kids and pets (and Lord knows how many previous owners’ kids and pets) had stained said carpet and that it would never again return to its pristine state.

Who am I kidding? Even its pristine state looked positively awful. Need I remind you it was pink? At any rate, for 21 years my husband wouldn’t budge on the issue. In his mind, it was impossible for a house to have too much carpeting—even terrible carpeting. He was even known to have loved the carpet that used to exist in our kitchen and master bathroom. Yes, KITCHEN and MASTER BATHROOM. I wish I were kidding. Not surprisingly, with regard to accidents, it brought new meaning to the word repulsive. Need I even mention the stench that lingered, even after dousing it with an arsenal of cleaning solutions?

“For the love of God,” I thought, “who puts carpeting in a kitchen or a bathroom?! It’s wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin to understand what went into such flawed design decisions.” Thankfully, I only had to endure that tragic reality for about 16 years, having replaced it with some beautiful pseudo-tile flooring. It’s a joy to walk on with bare feet and as an added bonus, I no longer freak out when I spill orange juice or drop an egg at my feet. Okay, maybe I freak out a little, but it’s a far cry from what used to happen.

As for our new living room/dining room reality, it is defined by warmth and wonderfulness in the form of seven-inch, oak-like planks that resist both stains and water. And to say that the dark walnut color is gorgeous is an understatement. It perfectly ties our kitchen cabinetry and stone island together with the Brookline Beige paint in our living/dining rooms and I’ve watched enough HGTV to say that it adds to the overall flow of the household. Yes, I used the word “flow” when I attempted to persuade my husband that we needed hardwood flooring, because I’m fancy like that.

Needless to say, I eventually succeeded in convincing him to ditch the aforementioned carpeting (at least on the first floor), but I’m sure it pains him greatly to admit that he actually likes the new hardwood floors. Of course, he refuses to use the word “flow,” but that’s okay.

“So what do you think about the new flooring?” I asked after the job was complete.

“It’s not so bad and I like how the color ties into the wood furniture. Even the area rugs are nice,” he conceded one day not so long ago.

I knew he’d see it my way. He just needed a chance to appreciate my vision. Alright, it’s possible I had no vision. Perhaps I just loathed that carpet with every ounce of my being and sought to replace it with just about anything that was remotely viable.

Even cobblestone had potential in my mind. At least it wouldn’t have been pink.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, enjoying my new hardwood flooring thanks to Ed Gair, the master craftsman who tolerated my neurotic little dog as well as an embarrassment of clutter. Visit me at www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom for before, during and after pictures.

Copyright 2019 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville

An Island of Misery

IMG_3914My kitchen island is a glorious beast—a massive, 34 square foot, 1,200-pound slab of quartz-y wonderfulness that seats six comfortably and houses a wealth of wares within its spacious cabinetry and drawers. It is all I dreamt of and more as our kitchen was renovated for months on end—the mother of all home improvement projects. But because the gods apparently hate me, its surface has been defiled in the years that have passed since its conception. I’m fairly certain that the man who built it (Tim Rosati) and the man who installed it (Ed Gair) would weep if they knew the awful truth—that it has become a home for wayward schlock that my family refuses to take care of and it’s entirely possible that I will die of disappointment.

On my headstone it will read: HERE LIES A WOMAN WHO APPRECIATED THE INHERENT BEAUTY OF A KITCHEN ISLAND WHOSE SURFACE SPARKLES IN THE SUN—A SPACE COMPLETELY DEVOID OF THE TRAPPINGS OF LIFE—A TESTAMENT TO ALL THAT IS UNSULLIED AND GOOD. LET IT BE KNOWN THAT SHE DIED TRYING TO RESTORE SAID ISLAND TO ITS ORIGINAL GLORY, A NOBLE AND WORTHY CAUSE INDEED.

At any rate, I have wasted precious time imploring my family to stop using my beautiful island as a dumping ground and I’ve made myself crazy attempting to return their stuff to its rightful place in the universe—like the cussed garage, or a dresser drawer, or a closet for Pete’s sake. Almost instantaneously, the wretched piles return, only larger and more offensive to my sensibilities. To illustrate, this is a partial listing of the items I found there today:

Party favors, props and programs from various musicals, phone chargers, checkbooks, out-of-date ticket stubs, gift cards, a dog leash and treats, someone’s watch (that may or may not keep accurate time), a hodgepodge of jewelry, a handful of cough drops, a half-eaten Rice Krispie treat, thank you notes (yet to be written), six jumbo paper clips, someone’s library card, a prescription drug box, PILES UPON PILES of mail in a sorry state of disarray, newspapers, the trappings of school, an honor roll clipping, tiny wads of unclaimed money, sweaters and sweatshirts, a discarded purse, marching band paraphernalia, field trip permission slips, as many as five coats hanging on the backs of chairs and eight pairs of shoes lying in a huddled mass at the foot of said chairs, a winter scarf, Bubble wrap and Judy Bernly’s bobby pins.

By all accounts, what I’ve described is tragic and I can’t begin to express how disheartened it makes me. It isn’t as if we haven’t had discussions as a family about the problem. Loud discussions, as I recall. Each time I argue my case, the logic I offer fails to inspire the parties in question to take lasting action. More specifically, to not only remove stuff from the island, but to KEEP IT FROM FINDING ITS WAY BACK. It’s almost as if my husband and kids are marking territory. Like dogs. Although I suspect that dogs know better.

To make matters worse, it appears as though the scourge is spreading—much like the plague. That said, the disordered mass has moved beyond the boundaries of the aforementioned island and currently affects a sizeable portion of a countertop and much of our dining room table. Sadly, the former has become a staging area for jewelry repair, featuring an embarrassment of ridiculously small tools, and the latter now functions as a place to pile things that have no business being piled there. Naturally, my husband argues they are things he is “working on.” If the past is any indication, he’ll be “working on” that stuff till doomsday. Maybe longer.

In order to deal with such a demoralizing set of circumstances, I suppose I’ll just have to ignore the surface and know that deep within beats the heart of my beloved island. Or I could ask for the unthinkable—that it be cleaned for Mother’s Day.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably standing in my kitchen, lamenting the sorry state of my island. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under In the Trenches of Parentville

Floored

Against all logic and understanding, I tolerated the most hideous-looking carpet known to man for what seemed like an eternity. It stretched an expanse measuring more than 600 square feet from living room to dining room—a wall-to-wall nightmare that everyone knew was pink. Not salmon. Coupled with the abundance of brass and ugly-as-sin wallpaper we found throughout the house on move-in day 1997, it was as if the eighties had lifted the roof and vomited every bit of horrible décor that had ever been imagined.

And because the universe hates me, it took more than two decades to convince my husband that it was high time for a change. Never mind my incessant reminders that our kids and pets (and Lord knows how many previous owners’ kids and pets) had stained said carpet and that it would never again return to its pristine state.

Who am I kidding? Even its pristine state looked positively awful. Need I remind you it was pink? At any rate, for 21 years my husband wouldn’t budge on the issue. In his mind, it was impossible for a house to have too much carpeting—even terrible carpeting. He was even known to have loved the carpet that used to exist in our kitchen and master bathroom. Yes, KITCHEN and MASTER BATHROOM. I wish I were kidding. Not surprisingly, with regard to accidents, it brought new meaning to the word repulsive. Need I even mention the stench that lingered, even after dousing it with an arsenal of cleaning solutions?

“For the love of God,” I thought, “who puts carpeting in a kitchen or a bathroom?! It’s wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin to understand what went into such flawed design decisions.” Thankfully, I only had to endure that tragic reality for about 16 years, having replaced it with some beautiful pseudo-tile flooring. It’s a joy to walk on with bare feet and as an added bonus, I no longer freak out when I spill orange juice or drop an egg at my feet. Okay, maybe I freak out a little, but it’s a far cry from what used to happen.

As for our new living room/dining room reality, it is defined by warmth and wonderfulness in the form of seven-inch, oak-like planks that resist both stains and water. And to say that the dark walnut color is gorgeous is an understatement. It perfectly ties our kitchen cabinetry and stone island together with the Brookline Beige paint in our living/dining rooms and I’ve watched enough HGTV to say that it adds to the overall flow of the household. Yes, I used the word “flow” when I attempted to persuade my husband that we needed hardwood flooring, because I’m fancy like that.

Needless to say, I eventually succeeded in convincing him to ditch the aforementioned carpeting (at least on the first floor), but I’m sure it pains him greatly to admit that he actually likes the new hardwood floors. Of course, he refuses to use the word “flow,” but that’s okay.

“So what do you think about the new flooring?” I asked after the job was complete.

“It’s not so bad and I like how the color ties into the wood furniture. Even the area rugs are nice,” he conceded one day not so long ago.

I knew he’d see it my way. He just needed a chance to appreciate my vision. Alright, it’s possible I had no vision. Perhaps I just loathed that carpet with every ounce of my being and sought to replace it with just about anything that was remotely viable.

Even cobblestone had potential in my mind. At least it wouldn’t have been pink.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, enjoying my new hardwood flooring thanks to Ed Gair, the master craftsman who tolerated my neurotic little dog as well as an embarrassment of clutter. Visit me at www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2019 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Home Improvement, Rantings & Ravings

Refrigerator Art: The Sequel

Well the inevitable has happened. I’ve gone to the dark side of home décor once more and I can’t begin to express my deep regret over my failings. In sum, I’ve sullied the surface of my newish refrigerator with more pictures than I can reliably count and made it a veritable shrine to my favorite people and pets in the world. Granted, it’s taken me five long years to amass such an assortment and I’ve only added said pictures to one side of the fridge, but some would estimate that because of my actions, I am roughly six magnets short of reversing the polarity of the earth.

Truth be told, I can’t help myself. The urge to display inspiring quotes and adorable photos (especially of my new granddaughter) upon the aforementioned surface is simply too powerful. It’s more of a compulsion actually, a sickness for which there is no remedy—except maybe to add more pictures and magnets to the spaces where there are none.

I’m sure my family thought I was fairly deranged when I promised to remove every solitary photo as well as my kids’ fledgling artwork from our old fridge and put them into permanent storage as soon as we remodeled our kitchen and replaced that fridge with a sexier, stainless steel model—one that resists scratches and hides fingerprints. They knew how I loved what could only be described as a glorious 28 cubic foot canvas—a 3-D masterpiece that was undeniably the focal point of our kitchen for years. I remember when visitors stood in front of it in awe, marveling at our artistic flair—or maybe they were perfectly horrified. I can’t be sure.

At any rate, it was a sight to behold and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of what I had created, one memorable image at a time. Each time I walked into our kitchen, I was reminded of favorite vacations, beloved pets and people—ordinary moments frozen in time. Of course, there was also a giant calendar, photo booth zaniness, a handful of words that my kids had spelled with magnetic letters when they were preschoolers and pictures that depicted important milestones, tangibly marking the passage of time. In every sense of the phrase, it was a snapshot of our journey as a family.

Somehow I wanted to hold onto the special moments, if only until the images faded and curled at the edges. I liked looking back at my children cruising around the house in nothing but diapers, the early days of kindergarten, making snowballs with Grandma in the backyard, carving pumpkins on the deck, sitting on a swing with their big sister. In that way, I suppose I could relive history. Almost.

Not surprisingly, before I removed everything, I took several pictures of the old fridge in all its glory to preserve the memory for posterity’s sake. I then prominently displayed one of those photos on the new fridge, perhaps in an effort to tether the old to the new, bridging the gap between what was then and what is now. Some might say I have issues with letting go. When it comes to pictures, I suppose that’s true. I‘ve got a garage full of family photos to prove it—generations worth.

Maybe we should invest in more refrigerators so I have someplace to put them.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably admiring my fridge. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under "S" is for Shame, Normal is Relative, Refrigerator Art, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

The Color of Bizarre

www.melindawentzel.comOf all places, it began in an obscure corner of a local pharmacy, with child in tow. My incapacitating infatuation with a certain hue of green paint, that is. Who does that? What sort of deranged mother follows a late night visit to an urgent care facility (due to excruciating ear pain of the youth variety) with a spontaneous and completely self-serving foray into the realm of household décor? This sort of deranged mother, apparently. One who was less concerned with the prospect of obtaining a curative pharmaceutical for her dear daughter than with the intoxicating possibility of acquiring said paint for a certain someone’s writing lair.

For the record, I didn’t intend to become smitten with the aforementioned hue whose algae-inspired essence was splashed over the entirety of the prescription drug enclave, beckoning to me unremittingly (like only pond scum pigmentation can). It just sort of happened and I could do nothing to resist. Indeed, the paint spoke to me.

Oddly enough, it spoke to my 11-year-old, too, whose blinding pain somehow evaporated as she stood before the wall of green, mesmerized by what appeared to be the world’s largest harvest of guacamole. Or seaweed. Possibly both.

“Mom, isn’t that the most awesome color you’ve ever seen?! It looks like frog spit and it would be PERFECT for your office! Plus it would cover up that lilac you’re so sick of, wouldn’t it?”

And at that, I was silenced. For this was the child who had refused to embrace the notion of change for as long as I can remember. The child who, on occasion, had launched visceral tirades in response to the mere suggestion of rearranging our living room furniture, never mind reordering her sock drawer or straightening the cushions upon our cussed couch.

God forbid we PAINT.

This could possibly explain my addled state and why I then became a disturbing source of fascination a terrible annoyance to the pharmacist, likely creeping her out with my shameless curiosity involving, of all things, latex paint.

“Can you tell me, ma’am, what shade of green that is?” I asked, pointing at the celebrated wall. “I know this sounds crazy, but I have to know. I’ve been wrestling with everything from gecko green to almost avocado, and now that I’ve gotten the go-ahead from our self-appointed Rule Captain,” I said, gesturing to my daughter who was clearly convinced that we should drop everything and paint, “I’d be stupid not to.” Translation: If I don’t jump on this project in the next ten minutes, my child, who is frighteningly obsessed with sameness, will forget she ever expressed an interest in said endeavor, dooming me to the horrors of a purple workspace for all eternity.

For a time, the woman stared blankly at the wall and then at me, probably wondering how I had eluded security at the mental hospital from whence I undoubtedly had come. She then shook her head (possibly making me appear less deranged and more pathetic), picked up the phone and dialed someone who might be inclined to house peculiar data involving the whereabouts of little known paint swatches. Naturally, I was taken aback, yet mildly intrigued by her willingness to help.

Then things got weirder. She began firing a barrage of questions in rapid-fire succession. What sort of room did I intend to paint…how many windows were contained therein…what sort of ambient light existed…had I ever considered using a complimentary color? Of course, this rendered me patently delirious. Here was a woman who recognized the desperation in my voice—a woman who could sense the dysfunction in my home—a woman who, at least on some level, understood what it was like to live with a tiny tyrant who stifled my every whim. Whims related to change, that is.

So when she actually tore a small chunk of paint off the wall, I was aghast—but in a good way. “Here, take this to the paint store. Maybe they can match it,” she offered, defining for me in so many glorious ways, the color of bizarre.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (poised to paint). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2012 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Normal is Relative, Project Schmoject, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction