Just for the record, this recent break in blogging had to do with the fact that I was in Pennsylvania away from the wicked fast internet connectivity afforded to one who lives her adult life in a college dormitory.

We went on a whirlwind tour of the keystone state, complete with family, scenic tree-lined mountain vistas, and milk.  Oh, the milk!  No one does dairy like Pennsylvania.  Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you Wisconsin.

Upon our return, blogging was further impeded by the fact that my goodly employers (and, technically speaking, landlords) had installed a new kitchen.  Well, not so much “installed” as “thrown together.” And I had to make sense of it whilest preventing the now walking TheologyBaby from entering an unbaby-proofed area.

I have mixed feelings about the new kitchen.  Since my home is actually three hotel rooms converted into three dorm suites converted into a two bedroom apartment, it has some quirks to it.  LIke an utter lack of a 90 degree angle in the whole place, for instance.  Thus the previous “kitchen” was this metal wall, impressive both for its bulk and for how ugly it was.  There was a range with three burners (the space where the fourth would have been was a small oasis of counter), an oven that was often shamed into inadequacy when confronted its far more powerful EZ-Bake brethren, a sink the size of a bread box, a small counter (with a drawer), a perfectly respectable fridge, and a set of cabinets.  Oh, and a carpeted floor that just went with the rest of the carpeting in the apartment.

The new kitchen has hard-wood looking linoleum for the floor, wooden cabinets (one of which is still missing, as it had to be special ordered), and a huge fridge.  The oven might not be able to take the EZ-Bake in a fight, but the two would probably nod at each other if they passed each other in the street.  The sink is also huge.  Therein, it would seem, lies the first problem.  There are no counters.  Or, I should say, there is five inches of counter on either size of the sink.  Room for a bottle of dish soap but not for, say, a dish drainer.  Or food preparation.  Or really any functional thing I could think of to do in a kitchen.  Likewise, they took my one and only drawer, which is fine, because really, why bother to store knives?  On what surface would I cut anything? 

My father-in-law is coming to visit soon, and has graciously offered to build unto me a kitchen island that will have a drawer and a counter.  So I am less vexed.  I will have to move the mouse-proof box that stores most of our dry goods (don’t ask), but I will live.  A second problem arises, however, when one tries to open the oven.  Because one can’t.  Because it is too big and the door gets stuck on the wall.  This is interesting, because it appears as though the people who installed it cut away a piece of the crown molding on the floor (is that what its called if its on the floor?) to get it in in the first place.  No one stopped and thought, “Hmmm.  We couldn’t install this such as the wall was.  I wonder if this will present a problem.”

And finally, the sink.  It oozes.  Oozes what, I do not know.  My husband (whose opinion I trust in these matters, handy fellow that he is) believes that whoever installed the kitchen used wood putty instead of caulk around the drain and around the sink itself in instillation.  Said wood putty seems never to harden, only to ooze.  Because it longs for wood, I suppose, not the cold heart of metal with which it is trying desperately to bond.  While wet.  Because it’s a sink. 

Heavy sigh.

Oh, did I mention the floor is bubbling?  The linoleum?  Yes.  Yes it is.  I know this, because my close associate spends much of her time scooting, crawling, flopping, and falling onto it and has noticed the bubbles.  One of her knew favorite hobbies is poking at them, watching them move and widen. 

I said I was of two minds on this.  On the one hand, I long for the old kitchen.  I know now that it was not ugly, but a design triumph, a kitchen built exactly for the space, for maximum efficiency and ease of use.  It was beautiful in its own way--it’s simplicity, it’s ability to have a sink, drawer, and counter.  The old kitchen would have stood long after humanity dies out.  This new kitchen will surely only last a year or two.  But . . . it’s so pretty.  The wood, the gleaming metal, the floor that matches the cabinets.  I bought new hand towels to hang.  I can’t prepare food, wash dishes, or tread to heavily on the floor, yes . . . but it looks good.  I find myself rocking the baby to sleep at night staring at it.  I lovingly swiffer that floor and watch is shine, sunny and bright.  I am either vain or shallow or both, but so help me I love this kitchen.

Really, I have no right to complain.  I mean, hey, free new kitchen!  Looks pretty good!  Not functional and it probably won’t be too great for the person who lives here after me, but who I am to argue?  I’ll get a kitchen island and all will be well.  Butt part of me wishes that some thought had gone into the new kitchen.  That someone had asked, “Why did they get this really odd sink/oven combo?” Or, “How can we fit a drawer and a counter into a space that still needs an oven and fridge?” I wonder if that is how things are done anymore, on an institutional level.  If designs are clever, functional, and attractive.  Not one done to the exclusion of the other two.  What I see in dorm design these days (and, sadly, I see a lot) just seems to make the place pretty, even if it will fall apart in a few years.  Or it doesn’t really work once people are actually using the space. 

Rest in Piece(s) old kitchen.  And the design ethic you embodied.  You shall be missed. 

Lately I have been particularly captive to a force I call “the parallel co-ed phenomenon (TM).” It mainly affects people who live and/or work at one school and attend another.  Or, alternatively, those who work at more than one school. 

The phenomenon occurs when you see a person you think you realize.  “Hi Sally!” You call out, enthusiastic and engaged.  “How is your dog, Roy?  I understand he was taken with the worms.  Rough thing, that!” “Sally” looks at you like you have three heads, quickly turns in the other direction, and breaks into a sprint away from you.

Confused, you wonder if you recently did something to offend Sally.  You then realize that you know Sally from School X, where you work, and you are currently walking across the quad at School BU, where Sally does not attend.  You think she might have attended a concert there once, actually, but it is still pretty unlikely that she would be there in the middle of the day.  In July.  When Sally is in Tibet helping orphans for her summer practicum.

Right.

This happens to me all the time.  I’ll be home in Pennsylvania and see someone I know.  But wait, I know them from Boston.  Is it them?  Usually not.  I then have to stop and remind myself where I am, who I should know here, and where it is I met the person who is confusing me in the first place.  I’m caught in this horrible nostalgia feedback loop that paralyzes me for minutes at a time.  Heaven forbid I see someone in the middle of the street.  I’m toast.

I think I need to commit to one institution or maybe a one college town, so resplendent is Boston with doppelgangers of the students with whom I live.  Though, it probably wouldn’t matter. I’ll be standing in Staples convinced I see my third grade teacher.  Who died last year.

“What’s the matter?” A companion will ask me.

“I see live people.” I’ll reply confused, the blood draining from my face.

And then he or she will quickly turn in the other direction and break into a sprint away from me.