Sounds dangerous, doesn’t it? It can be. That’s what I’ve started calling the kitchen when Gary’s in there cooking. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been shooshed away when he’s in food prep mode when I’m just trying to sneak a little pre-dinner snacky-snack. It’s for the best, really, because with all his grandiose gestures and sweeping movements carrying utensils, pots, pans, knives, whatnot, you don’t really want to be nearby.
Admittedly, he can’t really be blamed for the weird noise we just heard emit from the oven tonight, because he was out of the zone and on the couch. The noise was just the self-destruction of a too-old oven that begs to be replaced. Good thing we have that Best Buy card from Christmas still. We used last year’s Best Buy card to replace the dishwasher that started smoking one evening and stinking up the house, but that was last year. These are the trials and tribulations of living in an older home that hasn’t had the kitchen upgraded yet. Actually, we’re planning on some kitchen upgrades soon, but just not yet. We even have countertops and backsplash picked out with samples of both looking a little too shiny and new sitting around the older kitchen gear as inspiration. I don’t think the kitchen is feeling inspired, but, rather, depressed and suicidal. We’re hoping the refrigerator hangs on until next year, but it might be a little newer than the other stuff. We’ll see what happens.
But it’s not just the kitchen anymore– the Crumpler has expanded his zone. In fact, he’s spent much of the past week under the house installing insulation that looks suspiciously like bubble wrap coated in tinfoil. If I’m in the house, I can hear where he is from the intermittent thud of the staple gun. I tell you what. You haven’t really lived until you’re sitting on the toilet and feel a sudden ka-thunk right below your feet. Surprising as it is, it’s just the sound of progress.
The Crumpler Zone oftentimes extends around the washing machine and dryer. Like today, for example, when he decided to wash his Crocs. “You just need to hose those off, honey.” “No. I want to wash them in the machine.” Alright then. I tried to ignore the squeaky-squeaky-squeak noise coming from the machine, but it was just too much to take. So I lift the washer lid and there they are, those big, orange Crocs floating on top of the water in which everything else is getting washed. Oh well. I take them to the kitchen sink, rinse, and call it good enough.
You just never know what’s going to happen in the Crumpler Zone. An adventure every day.