Read Online If You Were Here by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Family Life, Women Authors, Chicago, Dwellings, Illinois, suburbs, Remodeling
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to rip stuff out? Then I suggest you find a house that’s priced accordingly or needs rehabbing.”
Mac nods. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mia. I say if we want the most house for our money, we buy a fixer-upper, but she’s totally against it.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Mia. Why so opposed?”Tracey asks.
“Redecorate? Yes. Rehab? No. I mean, remember when we had the leaky shower pan in the rental house on Old Gold Ave., and the one-week repair job turned into a two-month bath-gutting odyssey? No, thanks. I’d rather keep looking,” I reply.
Mac turns to me, “So this place? It’s out of the running?”
“Tracey makes a lot of sense about not tearing down expensive finishes,” I have to admit. “Should we go?” I rise from the table.
“Oh, no, no—I’ve got to see what treasures await upstairs,” Tracey says.
I’m not sure what particular feature finally pushes Tracey over the edge—whether it’s the Wild West saloon doors separating the hot-pink master toilet from the hot-pink sunken tub 47 or the massive elk-antler chandelier in the upstairs den or the wire-enclosed children’s bed that’s supposed to look like a princess coach but instead resembles a coast guard marine-rescue cage. She spends most of the ride to the city cackling and wiping her eyes.
On the plus side, I’m so glad we brought Tracey, because now we’re not buying a house that can’t be made tasteful.
The downside is, we won’t have a pool or a pond, and either one would have been good for me.
“Anything worth noting today?”
I say nothing, choosing only to grit my teeth in response.
“That bad?” Mac asks gently. I’ve just come in the back door from an entire day spent up in the Cambs.
While Mac’s at work, I’ve been tasked with running real estate recon missions. During the week it’s my job to weed out the stinkers so he doesn’t have to spend his weekends grimacing at faux-wood paneling and unfinished basements. I’m fine with the arrangement, because I have a looming deadline, which means I want to do anything except what I’m supposed to be doing.
The truth is that the places I saw weren’t so awful today—at least comparatively—provided one has a deep and abiding love for mauve paint, gold faucets, and flood damage. At the moment, my glowering is due less to the fruitless search and more because of what I catch him doing. He’s standing over the stove massacring thirty dollars’ worth of fresh ingredients from Whole Foods in an attempt to make dinner.
A few weeks ago, while we were at the market, I spotted a jar of herbs and sauce called Bush’s Chili Magic Chili Starter. I launched my body in front of it, hoping Mac wouldn’t notice, but I was too slow. He grabbed it, announcing, “Let’s make 2010 the year I learn to master chili!” just as I was thinking, Let’s make 2010 the year you stop trying to master chili. I realize some wives would love it if their husbands took the initiative to cook dinner, but perhaps they don’t realize they’d have to eat whatever their husbands make. 48 Because I hate the idea of wasting food—or hurting his feelings—I always choke down whatever he serves.
I take off my coat and come over to kiss him. Then I sneak a glance into the saucepan. I’m no chili aficionado, but I’m pretty sure it’s never supposed to be that color.
“See anything worth noting today?” he inquires.
“Sort of,” I say, grabbing a glass of wine from the fridge. I’m having chardonnay, not so much because I need a drink, but more because I’m hoping the oak resin will set up a Flavor Protection Perimeter between my tongue and his chili. (I also keep a secret stash of peanut-butter-filled pretzels in my desk for nights Mac cooks dinner.)
I take a deep, protective swig before continuing. “The place on Goldenmill had a Liberace bathroom.”
Before I continue, here’s where I need to apologize to everyone who’s ever prompted me to roll my eyes on
Mac nods. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mia. I say if we want the most house for our money, we buy a fixer-upper, but she’s totally against it.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Mia. Why so opposed?”Tracey asks.
“Redecorate? Yes. Rehab? No. I mean, remember when we had the leaky shower pan in the rental house on Old Gold Ave., and the one-week repair job turned into a two-month bath-gutting odyssey? No, thanks. I’d rather keep looking,” I reply.
Mac turns to me, “So this place? It’s out of the running?”
“Tracey makes a lot of sense about not tearing down expensive finishes,” I have to admit. “Should we go?” I rise from the table.
“Oh, no, no—I’ve got to see what treasures await upstairs,” Tracey says.
I’m not sure what particular feature finally pushes Tracey over the edge—whether it’s the Wild West saloon doors separating the hot-pink master toilet from the hot-pink sunken tub 47 or the massive elk-antler chandelier in the upstairs den or the wire-enclosed children’s bed that’s supposed to look like a princess coach but instead resembles a coast guard marine-rescue cage. She spends most of the ride to the city cackling and wiping her eyes.
On the plus side, I’m so glad we brought Tracey, because now we’re not buying a house that can’t be made tasteful.
The downside is, we won’t have a pool or a pond, and either one would have been good for me.
“Anything worth noting today?”
I say nothing, choosing only to grit my teeth in response.
“That bad?” Mac asks gently. I’ve just come in the back door from an entire day spent up in the Cambs.
While Mac’s at work, I’ve been tasked with running real estate recon missions. During the week it’s my job to weed out the stinkers so he doesn’t have to spend his weekends grimacing at faux-wood paneling and unfinished basements. I’m fine with the arrangement, because I have a looming deadline, which means I want to do anything except what I’m supposed to be doing.
The truth is that the places I saw weren’t so awful today—at least comparatively—provided one has a deep and abiding love for mauve paint, gold faucets, and flood damage. At the moment, my glowering is due less to the fruitless search and more because of what I catch him doing. He’s standing over the stove massacring thirty dollars’ worth of fresh ingredients from Whole Foods in an attempt to make dinner.
A few weeks ago, while we were at the market, I spotted a jar of herbs and sauce called Bush’s Chili Magic Chili Starter. I launched my body in front of it, hoping Mac wouldn’t notice, but I was too slow. He grabbed it, announcing, “Let’s make 2010 the year I learn to master chili!” just as I was thinking, Let’s make 2010 the year you stop trying to master chili. I realize some wives would love it if their husbands took the initiative to cook dinner, but perhaps they don’t realize they’d have to eat whatever their husbands make. 48 Because I hate the idea of wasting food—or hurting his feelings—I always choke down whatever he serves.
I take off my coat and come over to kiss him. Then I sneak a glance into the saucepan. I’m no chili aficionado, but I’m pretty sure it’s never supposed to be that color.
“See anything worth noting today?” he inquires.
“Sort of,” I say, grabbing a glass of wine from the fridge. I’m having chardonnay, not so much because I need a drink, but more because I’m hoping the oak resin will set up a Flavor Protection Perimeter between my tongue and his chili. (I also keep a secret stash of peanut-butter-filled pretzels in my desk for nights Mac cooks dinner.)
I take a deep, protective swig before continuing. “The place on Goldenmill had a Liberace bathroom.”
Before I continue, here’s where I need to apologize to everyone who’s ever prompted me to roll my eyes on
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