You could have held a contractors convention at the construction site last week. Painters in one bedroom, trim carpenters in the next. The plumbers who were scrunching under bathroom fixtures making final hook-ups were following hot on the heels of the tilers, who were busy grouting and sealing the stone floors. Electricians were scaling ladders hanging the chandeliers, while cabinet artistes were on their knees installing the latest batch of knobs and handles.

Since final inspection has been scheduled for Wednesday, and move-in date is less than a week after that, the pressure is multiplying. Every absent sub-contractor has us texting, calling, or grilling the GC.  Yet I am convinced that with a Three Musketeers ethos of “all for one and one for all” we will defy conventional wisdom and be sleeping in our new home in less than ten days. So imagine my disappointment when a recent double paged, picture-packed article in the bastion of design, the Wall Street Journal, informed me that as far as kitchens go, we blew it.

Let me describe our new kitchen. Rows and rows of meticulously hand crafted cabinets covered by highly polished counter tops. Accessory garages you can park a medium sized Kia in. A double sink, personally chosen by me, big enough to contain an entire dinner party for six–not just the dishes, the guests too. Dueling built-in ovens and a microwave that disappears into the cabinetry with the touch of a button. A light fixture that is close to Barb’s heart, and the pièce de résistance, an island roughly the size of Madagascar. We thought we had designed the most glorious galley that could be imagined.

So what was in the WSJ article that smashed our dreams? It seems that these days, those chichi New York homes now feature HIS AND HERS kitchens. That’s right, once is never enough!

Now his and hers walk-in closets I understand. I can even grasp the concept of separate (but equal) bathroom facilities. But kitchens?

Once or twice a year I make my damn good heart healthy turkey chili. And in any given winter I am prone to pull  the crock pot out of the recesses of the pantry to slow cook a tasty, but not too peppery, beef goulash. But other than those occasional incidents, and sometimes spreading chopped vegies over a Home Run Inn frozen pizza before popping it in to a preheated 450º oven, I don’t really do all that much cooking.

Yes, I do much of the clean-up. But I was more than content to share the counters and cabinets, the continental island and the oceanic sink, with Barb. But now I know the truth. Because of our solo kitchen we can never be a truly hip, up-to-date, 21st century couple. So do you think I can convince Barb to that we need to do this one more time, and this time maybe we will get it right?

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With my acceptance of the Scientist in Chief position in the incoming administration, Barb and I  faced the possibility of a long-distance relationship for the first time in our 38+ years of marriage. Facing the unfaceable, we decided we had to find a way to put Barb to work in the nation’s capital too. And in doing so, we hoped to make a life long dream come true!

All of you are familiar with the incredible job Barb has done as the supreme visionist and manager for our almost complete new suburban home. But you may not know that for Barb, this has only been practice. Her desire for years has been to take on the White House. It is old, it is big, it is important, and it needs a makeover. What better project to refresh the batteries — and get us both to Washington at the same time! So we pulled in  favors with a congressional aide here, a senatorial counsel there, a tweet or two to Mr. Trump himself. Our diligence paid off as we managed to arrange a very special job interview for Barb.

Last week, in a secret meeting in our friend’s apartment in Trump Tower downtown, Barb met with our First Lady to Be, the glamorous Ivanka Trump. I am pleased to say the meeting went swimmingly. The two ladies immediately bonded in a discussion of fabrics and window coverings. Ivanka’s face gleamed as they shared their admiration of marble. When Barb mentioned that our architect Jefferson had once worked on Hugh Hefner’s Chicago Playboy Mansion, Ivanka let it slip that President Trump had expressed  a desire for a hidden Man Cave below the Oval Office, and maybe they could borrow some of the Playboy plans?

The designing ladies sealed their admiration for each other with their mutual distaste of green, the newly declared Color of the Year. “Greeen may be OK as an accent color here and there, but if you paint a room in it, it makes my skin look pallid,” Trump was heard to say. “I know we can do lots of things with different shades of white, the Color of the Year in 2016. And what year has ever been better than 2016?”

So while it is not yet official, I think we (or Vladimir Putin) can confidently leak  that Barb will be accompanying me to Washington as Ivanka’s White House Decorator and personal confidante. Look out Washington, the Raffs are on the loose. It’s going to be a fun four years!

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