Brave little stove, standing guard by the scary hole even the cat won't explore.
I spent this past Saturday tearing my house apart. Literally. I tore out the 34 year-old press-board cabinets, hauled them to the backyard fire pit, set them ablaze, then started on the drywall. We now eat off paper plates until the new cabinets can be installed. Denver took one look and said "I don't like it - put it back"! The boys aren't comfortable with change. Tammy is in charge of picking out new cabinets and countertops; I'm in charge of paying. I don't know how much you know about cabinetry, but I've learned by examining the different costs that they're all apparently gold-plated. It doesn't matter; it's time.
Rumor has it that at one time there were 23 "internationals" living in this little 1400 square-foot house. That may seem crowded, but that's not taking into account the, oh, I don't know, maybe
4 million cockroaches sharing the same space, all of which died behind the cabinets when we hired the exterminator after we first moved in. The showering of carcass husks when the cabinets began to peel away was, let's say, an
unwelcome surprise. The vision still haunts my dreams.
