We wrapped up the kitchen remodel a few weeks ago on the verge of divorce and bankruptcy. Ok, not really. Financially, we’re fine. Let me tell you though, these major remodeling projects are hard on a marriage. We were the orneriest bunch of assholes on the planet from mid-October to the beginning of January. Do the math. Rob not being able to ride his bike for weeks + me trying to function with layers of dust covering the entire house every other day = meanness like you’ve never witnessed. This shit will literally turn you into a different person. It’s our own fault, yes, but I really wish someone would have been like, “Are you guys fucking crazy? You’re going to demolish your kitchen and then reconstruct it during the evening hours and weekends?” And poor Heath, our brother-in-law, like lived at our house for months. This is on top of trying to run his own business. I mean we paid him with a mixed drink every night, but I’m pretty sure we’re still on the owing end.

I may or may not have had a complete meltdown on an occasion or two. I vaguely recall myself saying, or shouting perhaps, “We have to finish this. I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND IF I HAVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS FOR ONE MORE DAY.” And then Rob would be like, “I think I’m going to repaint the ceiling.” At which point I would threaten to end his life.

Now Rob thinks that this project he’s completed has earned him a gazillion points. Yes, it did earn him many points, but getting cocky about it will result in a point loss. What? I’m just keeping it real.

The question I keep getting asked is, “Well, was it worth it?” To which I reply, “yes!” I LOVE our new kitchen. It is bright and efficient and everything I could ask for in a kitchen. It’s not the biggest kitchen on the planet, but we worked with the space we had

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, and I think we did pretty damn good. And, we’re still married! Here’s a peak inside.

I’ve known for awhile now that there really aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything you want/need/ to do. We all feel this way though, right? If you’re not one of those and instead have crazy amounts of time where you sit around and stare into space praying for something to do, don’t tell me. I may just break down and beg you to pull a switcharoo with me for a day.

Anyway, it came to my attention that I may need to re-prioritize a few things the other day when the conversation with my niece went like this:

Stevie: “Sonie, you look so beautiful.”

Me: Thanks, that is so sweet!”

Stevie: “How?”

Me: “How what?”

Stevie: “How do you look so beautiful?”

Me: “Oh, I showered.”

Yep, that’s right. I showered. I rest my case.

I finally got an entire weekend off (I know, I’m such a whiner), so we went camping. Like I mentioned in a previous entry #mce_temp_url#, we like to camp at my sister’s property.  We don’t call it the property though.  We call it the HOA.  It stands for Hendrickson (their last name) Outdoor Adventure.  Kind of like KOA.  Cute, huh? And sometimes it stands for Heath on Alcohol. Like Saturday night it for sure stood for that.  Let’s just say that Heath, my bro-in-law was doing hand stands at one point.  They were really impressive, I might add.  He even walked a few steps.

Rob, I’m sure, was wishing that he’d had enough alcohol to do hand stands, but his awesome wife bought him mini beers.  Not on purpose, people!  I can’t help it if Corona is all clever and makes you think you’re getting 24 regular beers when you’re really getting 7 oz. coronitas.  That’s right, 7 ounces.  And yes, they call them coronitas.  Adorable, right?  I’m not sure what the point is.  Are these for beginner drinkers?  Because I’ll tell you what, seasoned drinkers are very confused.  Rob felt like he had to drink like 15 of them.

Alcohol was probably necessary during the trip.  That kid that likes to drop “F” bombs by the fire was there again.  This time he didn’t drop any swear bombs.  Not any that I was privy to anyway.  He still kept things interesting though.  On Saturday night his parents disappeared for a while.  Heath, on alcohol, said, “Hey Armando, I think your parents are in the tent making…”  Of course I filled in the blank with “brownies.”  What, that’s the first thing I could think of.  That kid is no dummy though and he responded with, “Let’s just say they’re not that close.”  Awkward silence.  I want to laugh so bad but I know I shouldn’t looks at each other.

Good times, people.  Good times.  Almost as good as what Em, my stepdaughter, witnessed at Wal-Mart over the weekend.  While shopping in that god awful place, one of the employees came over the intercom.  No big whoop, right?  Wrong.  The words that came out of his mouth were nothing short of amazing.  They were, and I quote, “Attention Wal-Mart customers, the garden center is now closing.  Get the fuck out.”  Holy shit!  Can you believe it?  You know that is a dude that has just gone postal.  What a way to go.

For the Fourth of July weekend a bunch of us went camping.  My sister and brother-in-law own some property about two hours away and it’s freakin’ awesome.  First, you don’t have to worry about reserving a spot on holiday weekends and second, it’s camping.

Most of the time something dysfunctional happens though.  Last year someone in my family got bumped (literally bumped) with a four wheeler and “lost all feeling in his leg.”  Yes, I’m keeping the name anonymous and yes, this person was a serious hypochondriac.  The year before I told my brother-in-law to stop bossing my sister around (what, I’m protective) and I was not his favorite person for the rest of the trip.  I hope he remembers that I’m a lot better about keeping my mouth shut now and that I love him dearly. 🙂

This year was a lot less dysfunctional but not any less interesting.  Heath, my brother-in-law, invited a co-worker and his family to join us.  His family included his wife and two sons, one of which was maybe a little bit “different.”  He was a perfectly nice kid but just a tad annoying and possibly crazy.  He’s 10, so it’s to be expected.  What’s not to be expected is what happened one night when we were all hanging around the campfire.  We were partaking in usual campfire activities; roasting marshmallows, making smores and telling stories.  Armando, the slightly annoying and possibly crazy 10 year old, was riding my nephew’s motorcycle back and forth next to the fire. On one particular loop back, he lost control of the motorcycle and it crashed into someone’s trailer. It scared him, naturally.  He started apologizing profusely.  I’m talking “I’m sorry” like 15 times.  And then, mixed somewhere within those apologies, he let out an extra special one…. He said, and I quote, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

I was like hmmm there’s no way I just heard this kid drop an F bomb. Rob turned to me and was like, “Did he just say ‘I’m so fucking sorry?'”  Turns out that’s exactly what he said.  And he said it so casually.  He dropped it like it was nothing.  His parents weren’t around, and none of us tried to discipline the foul language.  How could we?  We were in shock.  I’m telling you right now that if you’re 10 years old that is totally how you should drop an F bomb, or any swear bomb for that matter.  It’s so sly that by the time anyone figures out that’s what you’ve actually said, the moment has passed.  So, on that note, Happy Fucking Fourth of July!