Two nights ago, we began the process of tearing out our kitchen walls. Now. If you remember the gusto with which we attacked the first floor unit’s kitchen (and bath, and bedroom, and and and), well, I guess we used it all up downstairs. Because? This. shit. sucks.
In fact, it’s the first time I seriously (well, not like seriously but kinda seriously in wishful thinking terms) considered calling in a demo crew to tear this out.
BFD, you’re thinking. They’re just walls. The easiest thing to remove. Just get a flat bar. Except. We have one. We have a few. And it’s just like, ugh. No energy. No motivation. Old drywall dust everywhere. Tenants downstairs so we’re extra cautious of noise. There wasn’t even any actual kitchen to remove, since we’ve taken out that old 1960s stove (don’t worry, Jesus is still on the wall, coughing up dust). We’ve taped off the doors. We papered the floor. We even have a bagster outside ready to hold the debris.
We worked for a few hours Tuesday, and then, oh it’s 10pm, bedtime. Tomorrow. Then we worked a couple more hours the next night, and well, that’s enough. If we actually were motivated, we could have the walls down, new drywall up and plastered and be buying our cabinets in a week – no, days.
I want to have a kitchen. I want to be able to cook a dinner sans microwave. It’s just that we left all our energy downstairs and I think it got trapped in the scary closet behind some insulation and a faux built-in.