A New Spin

Posted April 2026

Every time I walked into my kitchen, I felt anxious. It was small, dreary, and outdated. My kitchen is my she-shed, my man-cave, my laboratory. I can fill many hours there: making a new dish while cleaning out my vegetable drawer, baking sourdough loaves to give away, or preparing a plethora of complicated recipes for a themed dinner party.

As a retired widow with limited means, having the kitchen I wanted seemed out of the question. I had used most of my savings to fix the house’s exterior, which had had rotten areas and a terrible paint job, and had only recently paid off the loan for the new refrigerator and washer and dryer.

My brother and sister-in-law come over for dinner three or four times a month. My brother’s preferred spot at the dining room table faces my dark, dated kitchen. It didn’t help that every meal for the last two-plus years I’ve lived here, he’s said, “You know, your house would be really nice if you just did something to the kitchen.” He glances at the dull, scratched, veneer oak cabinets, the nicked white backsplash, and the barf-colored countertops marked with knife cuts from the previous occupants.

I decided to replace the kitchen sink and faucet. That would do much to lift my spirits. The thirty-year-old stained enamel sink was only seven inches deep, and the faucet nozzle hung like a wilted flower. I combed through big box websites and compared sink brands, styles, and reviews. I found a highly-rated double stainless steel model with a depth that could hide a dinner party’s worth of dirty dishes while waiting for the dishwasher. Through Amazon, I found a faucet that had 4+ stars.

I’m new to the Kansas City area and don’t have my twenty-year network from California. I used the NextDoor app, asking for a good handyman. Cheaper than a plumber, right? And a handyman would be useful for other repairs. My to-do list was long. Sound decision.

I found one with lots of “faves,” recommendations from past customers. I went to the guy’s website. He boasted about being raised in the contracting business and working in it for decades. He claimed he could do electrical, plumbing, drywall, and any kind of installation or fix. I called him and told him what I wanted to have done. I also asked him to do a bathroom faucet change-out in the upstairs bathroom while he was at it. I’d already purchased that faucet the previous month. We set up an appointment.

I knew I was in trouble when a truck pulled up outside on the appointed morning with a handicap tag hanging off the rear-view mirror. I watched two fat gnomes, complete with overalls and gray beards, lumber out of the truck and sloth-walk across the driveway. Ten minutes and eleven feet later, when I opened the door, I cautioned them to be careful as there was a step down from the entrance into the rest of the house. Gnome One ignored my warning and immediately took a tumble, knocking over a large planter that scattered dirt across the dining room and into the living room with the uprooted plant. His fall also chipped a baseboard.

“Sorry,” he said, lying on the floor. He stared at the ceiling, but didn’t move.

Was he contemplating a lawsuit?

Finally, still lying there, he said, “I have a prosthetic leg.”

Gnome Two lumbered over and offered to help him. As Gnome One reached up with his left hand to grab his co-worker’s, I noticed Gnome One’s right hand was missing. How can someone with one leg and one arm be a handyman? How was he going to do plumbing work? But I didn’t dare ask, giving him the politically correct benefit of the doubt. After all, he had all those “faves.”

The two chubby guys worked slower than sea anemone swim. It didn’t help that Gnome One chose to take on the faucet replacement upstairs, panting as he took one step at a time, making the handrail groan as he pulled himself along on his one leg. Three, six, ten hours later, they finished. Gnome One kept telling me throughout the day how poor the original plumbing in my house was. How the wrong shut-off valves had been used for the space. How the pipes were too close to the walls. “It’s all making the job extra difficult.” He nudged up the price. Check in hand, the two snail-walked back to their truck.

By morning, there were puddles under both the bathroom and kitchen sinks. No way would I call on the gnomes to correct their shoddy work. I paced and cursed, putting buckets under both sinks. No choice but to find a proper plumber. I berated myself for hiring Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumber and believing Gnome One’s website. I consulted NextDoor for plumber recommendations. I was leery to use the app again, but it was my only resource for sifting through the many options offered in the Yellow Pages. I called a plumber/HVAC company with many good reviews. They were able to send someone out a few days later.

I marked the hours away, wanting the problem solved. When things aren’t going my way, I go into negative, feel-sorry-for-myself mode. My world crumbles. My peace of mind shatters.

The plumber arrived, a taciturn young man with stretched, pierced earlobes with what looked like black wine corks stuck in the holes. He inspected the problems. “Whoever installed your sink and upstairs faucet didn’t use the proper plumbing adhesive,” he said. He added an extra connecting part under a portion of the kitchen sink and sealed the sink to the counter, which the gnomes hadn’t done. I asked about the house’s pipes, giving him Gnome One’s list of complaints. He shook his head. I didn’t need to do anything about the valves or pipes. He was only there an hour, but another hefty bill.

It took me a week to calm down.

The following week, when my sister-in-law helped carry in dirty plates from the table, she paused and said, “Oh my gosh, you got a new faucet.” She complimented my choice. Then she noticed the new sink. “Your sister has a new sink and faucet,” she said to my brother.

“Oh,” he said. Then he looked at the ugly countertops and cabinets.

I decided to investigate a new stove. The old electric one was over ten years old and baked unevenly, and the ceramic stove top was heavily scratched. I researched gas versus electric appliances, investigated brands, and found an electric model with a double oven I liked. To my delight, it was on sale, and, if I hurried, it had financing that fit my budget. I went to the store and ordered it.

I had to forego my morning exercise class to be home in the four-hour window I was given for delivery. When the new stove arrived, they said they couldn’t install it. “Your old one is hard-wired. We can’t touch it. We can’t remove it or set up your new one. You need to call an electrician and have a proper plug put in.”

The delivery men parked the new stove in the middle of my dining room and told me to call them after I got a proper outlet. Great, a delay and another bill.

I fumed and worried, but I had to take care of the literal obstacle. The list of electrician possibilities when I Googled them seemed dauntless. I combed through the NextDoor app and found one with a high “fave” rating and many nice comments from former customers. Brandon was pleasant on the phone, and apologized that it would take a few days for him to work me in. He was quick and efficient when he arrived. His price was also reasonable. I cleaned up the drywall mess from his work and called the delivery men back to install the new stove and haul out the old one. That took another few days. Lots of microwave meals and cold cereal.

During the next family dinner, my sister-in-law noticed the new stove in seconds when they walked in. My brother didn’t see it until she pointed it out. While we ate, he gazed into the kitchen with his, “You know, if only you could get rid of those cabinets . . . .”

Each day, as I worked in the kitchen, I agreed. I reminded myself that I’m not getting any younger. It would be nice to have a few years ahead to enjoy my most important room.

I checked the possible routes for a remodel. I decided a thrifty but practical option would be to reface the cabinets. I courted several companies. One company was very pushy and insisted I replace the old countertops with granite and retile the backsplash. That company also demanded EVERYTHING had be taken out of the kitchen, including the stove and refrigerator, and stored elsewhere for four to eight weeks. I told the salesman I had to think about it, but knew that wasn’t what I wanted. When he called the next day, anxious for a “yes,” I told him “no.”

“FUCK,” he yelled. Like that would win me over.

I tore up his business card.

Another company didn’t make it past reading their website. They repainted cabinets, a cheaper process, but, again, major upheaval requiring everything be moved out. Painting would take weeks to finish and that option was stinky and messy.

The third company sent an easy-going estimator with a long goatee who turned out to be the owner. He chatted about a surprise party he was throwing for his wife, how excited he was to gather the whole family together. When we got to business, he told me about an epoxy process that could cover my present backsplash and counters. No ripping things out. No granite price. A strong and attractive option. In the before and after pictures, the epoxy idea provided a fine, classy change. Even better, his company didn’t require the kitchen to be emptied. They worked around what they could, and they’d move out the stove and refrigerator if needed. They would put in new cabinet doors and hardware, and all new drawers.  They would turn my cabinets into whatever color and style I wanted. Plus, they only required two weeks.

What’s more, they had a financial plan and price that I could work with on my tight budget.

I signed the contract after choosing cream-colored doors, a subtle speckled black/gray/tan backsplash, and a chameleon countertop to compliment the backsplash.

I didn’t tell my brother and sister-in-law about the remodel, wanting to surprise them.

I entered a two-week turmoil. The workers had to move the stove out for the fourteen days, and I lost use of the refrigerator for two days. The worst part, however, was pet care. I have three cats, two old ones and a young, restless spitfire. Neither the cats nor I realized they’d need to be locked up for days. They had to be protected from the epoxy fumes and from escaping as the installers went in and out. I couldn’t have the young one jumping onto counters while they dried during the required forty-eight hours per epoxy application, or climbing through the china shelves while the cabinets were door-less.

We got through week one of headache-y fumes, billowing plastic sheeting, large exhaust tubes, and obnoxious-sounding vacuums. The cats and I got the weekend off with some freedom from the outsiders. My living room floors and couches were filled with pots and pans, dish towels and tablecloths, the air fryer, waffle maker, coffee maker, flour, sugar, Kitchen Aid mixer, and all the cutlery and material from the drawers. The young one loved the new landscape, batting at the plastic sheeting to create new doorways for herself and pawing through the loose items. I got to use the microwave, though I only had access to one fork and one spoon since the drawer materials were buried in boxes.

Week two brought dust, buzzing saws, whirring drills, and loud hammering. The cats had to return to their room prisons. I felt my blood pressure going higher each day. I told myself, “Seven more days. If I get through this day, only six more.” And so the countdown continued.

It was the middle of week two, after complaining to any friend who would listen about my “woe is me” situation, when I stopped and took note, listening to my awful, whiny self.

“Katherine,” my inner voice said, “time to change your attitude. Why are you fretting? Clever you made this ordeal affordable, getting the deal you wanted. Look at the steps you took to get here. Look at the barriers you went through and how you problem-solved. Stop with this sour disposition. Look at the positives, girlfriend.”

Indeed. Spin in the other direction.

My whole demeanor changed. I listed the pluses of my journey: I’d found a new electrician, a nice guy who was fair. I’d hire him again in a microsecond. The Gnomes? An unusual anecdote for dinner parties. Next time, I know to call a plumber for sink and faucet installations. I also found a contact for my plumbing and HVAC needs.

The two weeks of mess? I hid out in my office. Lots of writing. Lots of accomplishments. I dove into projects I’d put off for three years. I sent out short story submissions and query letters for my two finished books. Progress.

The disorder in the living room? Major cleaning took place as I moved each box of goods into its new home. I found gadgets I hadn’t seen in years. I filled a box for Goodwill of extra pans and kitchen supplies. I had a chance to reorganize. How much more sense it made to put pots and pans in the island and switch spices to magnetized racks on the side of the refrigerator. And how much nicer on the eye to have the coffee pot tucked away on the south counter.

I met new people, and had company during the day. I liked hearing Luke the cabinet guy sing off-key to oldies and tell me about his cat Waffles that he LOVES. And Steve the epoxy person who just bought his own house and spends his free time playing hockey.

Problems happen. Each one, though, contributed to my growth in positive ways. I learned about myself and my capabilities. Quit with the worry and wanting bad times to pass. I don’t want to wish away another single hour because the present isn’t to my liking. I’m a senior citizen marching toward the end. I won’t “endure” my remaining minutes, but enjoy them. Focus on the marvelous between the difficult.

No matter what confusion and mishap I endured, I now have a modern, bright, and happy room.

When my brother and sister-in-law came to dinner, they stopped dead at the kitchen entrance while taking in the big reveal. My brother’s face brightened, his smile large. “Wow,” he said. “Your kitchen looks fantastic.”