It was ugly– now its over.
 
And I’m back.
 
(Don’t get excited Henry– this isn’t the one about Angela and the four golf pros.)
 
What started out as a fun distraction after another shitty Valentine’s Day turned into a most unnecessary ordeal of angry person soothing, apartment searching and moving, all during the most snow this city has seen in many a year. Talk about complicating matters– this is New York, where you can get pretty much anything any time of day.
 
Well, try getting a plumber on a Sunday morning with six inches of fresh snow on the streets. While other women were cozily sleeping off their Saturday night out or making pancakes with their boyfriend while the snow fell, I was trying to keep hot water from flooding my former kitchen and anyone in my building from finding out that I ‘d blown off half a dozen co-op rules by trying to do a quick kitchen upgrade on my own before Mom’s arrival.
 
I know, I know, you’re thinking, “Dumb girl, why would you even try and switch out a crappy faucet fixture on your own in the first place?”
 
Well in the “25 things no one knows about Adrienne” you’ll find that I have a fairly complete toolbox in the closet, and know mostly what to do with it.
 
when I was little, I followed my Dad’s every move when something needed fixed or when he decided to “upgrade” something around the house. He was a builder who couldn’t leave work at work, and of course you probably know Mom by now– even then, nothing was ever good enough for her, even when Dad rode to the rescue of her overloaded garbage disposal or circuit breaker just in time before the guests arrived.
 
So let’s just say, I thought I could do it myself, I always hated the whole approval process that building required for anything more complicated than mopping the floor, Mom’s been ripping me on my kitchen since her first visit, AND I woke up early and alone on the Sunday after Valentine’s Day.
 
I thought a little “upgrade” work of my own around the house would make me feel better, or at least better prepared for Mom’s impending stay in the city.
 
Well, five weeks later, I feel a little better– I won’t have to hear anything about that fucking kitchen again, that’s for sure.