So we just moved into a new place last Tuesday (the downstairs unit of a great 2-bedroom duplex in the Mid-City area) and I've been struggling to set up the kitchen this week, a sisyphisian (sp?) task of vast proportions made triply so by the addition of our boisterous 16-month-old daughter and her unending pleas for entertainment, love and food. Sheesh.
We were at our last home for 5 years and I had that kitchen (which was woefully lacking in cabinetry and counter space) dialed in like crazy.
I know that this new kitchen will eventually find its groove and flow and that I have to be patient, but ugh. I didn't realize how much it was going to affect my sense of well being. Getting dinner on the table before 8:30 each night is hard enough without the halting cadence of the 'where are the spoons-spatulas-skillet' dance tripping me up.
And I haven't even mentioned the Italian tile floor that put me on the couch with an icepacked knee the first night we were here. This shit is brutal. Who decided that tile was a good idea for a floor you stand on for hours? Jeeeezus.
Gotta sleep. More soon.