Daisy and I have had to have some time apart. It happened when she friend-zoned me. She told me it wasn’t me; it was her. That I deserved better. That I would make another camper happy some day.
I told her fine, it WAS her and good luck trying to find somebody who would pay $600 for counter tops and could afford to have her cushions custom made.
She huffed, deployed an army of faux ladybugs, stink bugs and spiders to keep me away, then pouted through the holidays. When I’m outside playing with the dog, she ignores me and I return the favor. We dance the dance of broken couples by pretending the other isn’t in the room while we laugh gaily, with a sparkle in our eyes, at something somebody else said.
The frost is beginning to thaw, however, with the onset of a few warm days last week. I ventured her way, to discover that what beetles the spiders hadn’t eaten were lying belly up, ready to be crunched beneath my feet as I perused Daisy’s incomplete interior.
We came to an impasse last fall, after Man Child installed the black and white tile-patterned linoleum floor. It looked so danged good, we were ready to finish the task. I ordered Formica samples for the counter tops. Ooh! This one! No, this one! Oh, wow, no, how ‘bout THIS one! We want ALL the retro designs.
Then we got prices.
Daisy is a DIY, on-the-cheap, cabinets-from-Habitat-Home-Store kinda gal. I am NOT gonna pay that kind of money for a counter top, I don’t care how flippin’ cool it is. We have two kids in college, a high maintenance horse, and a Target habit to maintain. Sorry Daisy.
She didn’t take it well and that’s when the break occurred. She doesn’t understand not only is she beer budget, she’s end-cap sale beer budget. Formica has become champagne taste. You people with your marble, granite or custom concrete countertops, you peasants with your stainless steel industrial counters, you have no idea what upscale really is.
If price point is the indicator of quality, then retro Formica is the crème de la crème of kitchen design.
It’s not like we broke up and I forgot about her. Man Child continues to have her in his “thoughts and prayers” as he runs ideas past me. “We could 3D print the design and CAD the E=MC2 and black hole theory then epoxy over it.” Or something like that. He’s in college, studying aerospace stuff and I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about most of the time. I’ve learned that a mother’s eyes can gloss over just as easily as a wife’s once a nerd starts talking.
“Sure honey, we’ll do that.” The last time I said that he blew up watermelons in the back yard and one of my favorite neighbors called.
“Tina, before I call the police about the explosion noises, I thought I’d check to make sure it wasn’t your Man Child and one of his experiments.”
Thank you neighbor Ann. It was he, indeed. Would you like to watch watermelons explode? No? Okay. Thank you again for not calling the popo. Have a nice day.
Meanwhile, Daisy and I have reached a détente. I begrudgingly let her know that we’re trying to find other solutions that will be just as retro, cool and worthy of her style and she begrudgingly lets me know that she wasn’t going anywhere anyway. After all, Bonnaroo helped determine she’s not quite roadworthy.
She also reminds me that she has not forgotten my wandering eye, nor my obvious lust over the green 70s RV parked beside us at said music festival aptly named “The Pickle.”
Because relationships thrive on kindness and sometimes that means silence, I don’t tell her about my heart palpitations after I saw an Airstream for sale. I would SO buy Formica countertops for that thing.