the kitchen plan…

As you know, I’m dreaming of a kitchen rennovation. From the day I saw this house, I’ve been planning a kitchen rennovation. 
I’ve measured and drawn plans using Adobe Illustrator – picking up and moving little boxes labelled ‘fridge’ and ‘table’, hitting delete when I considered removing a wall… 
I’ve been doing this regularly, about once every few months. I have a folder of kitchen plan variations to rival the Rocky film saga. However, I think I’ve finally found a plan which works for me and the space.
Now the issue moves from designing to actually doing. And doing involves money, time, money, materials, money… you get the picture.
A friend of mine shared her advice – I laughed my butt off. It was so good I thought I’d share it with you.
Kitchen Plan Version 46 – Implementation
This is where the “take your time, save and stock up ahead of time” scenario works best. You’ve measured, remeasured and measured again. You have ordered the cabinets over time and have quite the stack, with probably a couple of extras that you forgot you already bought or figured you could use in the grooming room after the kitchen is done. You’ve loaded up on plumbing bits when you’ve found them on sale. You’ve got a stack of timber waiting to line the walls. Your new light fixtures are back from being rewired and you’ve finished painting them. You got lucky and someone gave you the exact sink you had been dreaming of and you found a gorgeous faucet on clearance just a couple of months ago and had to have it. Your knobs and pulls aren’t here yet but that’s okay. You’ll do those yourself later on. And wonder of wonders, you got hold of the ideal window to replace the small one that makes you nuts! The new stove is sitting in the casita, waiting beside it’s giant range hood. All is ready.

So, day one, demolition. So is day two because you had to stop and clear out the rubble. And measure and assess, discuss and cuss, measure again and everyone agrees on where to stop on the wall that’s going down. Day three, you have a moment of panic when you see all the holes and exposed studs, and one of the dogs walked off with a board full of nails and you had to chase him down and check to see if he had any punctures in his stupid head. Wayne just tripped and scraped the entire side of his head and you think he should see a doctor because his ear doesn’t look like it’s attached.

Day four, you’re back in business and the rest of the demo is done. You, being a Zefi, are cleaning and cleaning and then cleaning a little more. And having a small panic but you work it off with cleaning.

Day five, the electrician comes by (two days late but that worked out, didn’t it?)  and you show him where he needs to reroute wiring and get things ready for the next time he comes out. The plumber pulls in just as the electrician is leaving and you’ve got to show him his part and convince him that what he says is impossible really isn’t. You’re paying and he should just do it, dammit.

The carpenter hasn’t arrived yet and he was supposed to have been here this morning. You’re pissed.

You’re so pissed, you start opening up the packages and put together the first of the cabinets. And realize that you can do this.

Day six, you’re wiped out because you spent the entire night building cabinets and you’re frustrated because you have to go groom 4 dogs and you don’t have the time to get Wayne to help you haul the cabinets in and put them in place temporarily so you can work out the configuration in your mind.

Day seven, Chris has arrived to help because you called him 17 times and threatened his “gentleman’s sausage” (thanks, John Heald! LOL). Between you, the cabinets get hauled into the house and you send the men away so you can start shifting things around and trying this or that layout. Wayne is talking about having you committed because you HAD figured it out and now you’re re-figuring? He and Chris rush to the pub because you threw a handful of cash at them, tied around rocks to make sure they get the hint.

They skulk into the house in the wee hours of the morning, fearful that you’re still in there, moving stuff around.

Day 8, you ply the boys with aspirin for their hangover and insist they eat a big, greasy breakfast because you have a cunning plan and they’re needed to execute it. You grumble for the next 5 hours because they grabbed their plates and disappeared into the brush. They took all four dogs because they’re not animals and they were worried about bloodshed.

They return in the evening and you’re waiting…with tool belts ready to go. Their punishment for sneaking away is to line the walls with the timber you have spent all day measuring and cutting. Their choice is to do what you tell them or sing soprano for the rest of their lives.

Day 9 is more of the same – finishing the walls, working on the ceiling. Doing what they’re told because even though they ARE men and of suspect intelligence, they’re not totally stupid and they like their deep, manly voices.

Day 10, the plumber shows up and you shove the guys out of the way and with speed and superhuman strength, fling cabinets into their proper places so the sink is where it needs to be for the plumbing to be done. Because word is out in the area, the electrician shows up and is able to install all the wiring and lighting, puts the stove and hood in place with the help of the frightened plumber who would rather be escaping out the door but you’re standing right there and in minutes, the entire electrical job is complete. You allow the workmen to escape only after trying everything out. Because you pity them a little, you fix them a snack for the road on your new stove. They speed off the property, still chewing, as you’re rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the new dishwasher.

The carpenter still hasn’t shown up but you get a surprise phone call from him, begging you not to kill him and promising to be on site at 7am the following day.

Day 11, the carpenter and several very nervous helpers arrive and after you show him what is left for him to do, which isn’t much because you’ve gotten the walls and ceilings taken care of, but you do really want those gorgeous wooden countertops ready to use, please…and faster than you can formulate a thought, your kitchen is finished except the painting, and wonder of wonders, the nervous helpers are all holding brushes and rollers and asking you to please tell them which color so they can finish and be released into the wild soon. They weren’t hired to paint but they’ll do anything to get done and get out of there. You’re scary.

Day 12, the nervous helpers arrive again and you’re confused but they run past you with fear in their eyes and various strange machines in hand, and suddenly you’re hearing the sound of floor sanders as your exposed wood floors that needed a little attention are getting refinished unexpectedly  for you. Because you really ARE that scary.

Early on day 13, Wayne and Chris return from somewhere, scruffy, thinner, smelling of outdoors and unbathed armpits, followed by remarkably unsoiled dogs (because they washed and cleaned them up overnight in the grooming room while you were sleeping peacefully in the house – fear will do that…) and you’re so happy with your new kitchen, you fix them breakfast and don’t complain when their funk gets too heavy – you simply turn on your aircraft sucking range hood to pull the funk out of the kitchen. And look at that! You still have 9 days left of your holiday to decorate and start planning your next big project.

And in Hobart, several men shuddered and crossed themselves…and they aren’t even Catholic.

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