Sugar, Spice & Are You Fn Kidding Me?

My husband once told me that naming things is one of the hardest things you can do.

Names. Titles. Those few little words that are somehow supposed to capture an entire thing.

So when I started thinking about writing a blog for Outcrop Manor, I kept getting stuck on what to title this blog.

I knew what I didn’t want.

I didn’t want to write one of those blogs where everything is beautiful and magical and perfectly curated. Because that isn’t real life.

But I also didn’t want this to become a running list of everything that has gone wrong while we figure out this giant, quirky, beautiful house.

Because that isn’t the whole story either.

Life is both.

Beautiful and brutal.

Funny and terrifying.

Sometimes everything is working perfectly and you’re standing there thinking, Holy shit, we actually did this.

And sometimes you’re standing in the exact same spot twelve hours later wondering why there is water underneath your sink, your fire alarm is going off, your cleaners have canceled, and your coffee is dripping from a ceiling that you swear you just cleaned.

So Friday night, I thought I had the perfect name.

Sugar & Spice.

Cute, right?

Yeah.

That lasted about 48 hours.

The women staying at Outcrop that weekend called us shortly after arriving.

The elevator wasn’t working.

They’d had a small power outage, and apparently the elevator had decided it was done participating in the weekend.

Normally, we would have dropped everything and headed over.

Except Chris was getting radiation.

That sentence still feels strange to write.

My husband has stage IV cancer. Right now there is a tumor affecting his airway, and he is going through radiation treatments.

So we couldn’t just leave.

Instead, we called our elevator guy, made sure he would be available by phone, finished radiation, jumped in the car, and headed straight to Outcrop.

We got there.

Full reset.

Five minutes later…

Elevator working.

And I remember feeling weirdly accomplished.

Like, Okay. This is who we are.

Something happens? We figure it out.

That is what I want this place to be.

Not a place where nothing ever goes wrong. I don’t think that place exists.

I want it to be a place where, when something does go wrong, you know we give a damn and we’re going to do everything we can to fix it.

While I was there, I noticed something else.

These women had A LOT of stuff.

At least that was my first thought.

Then I looked around and realized…

No.

They didn’t have too much stuff.

We didn’t have enough shelving.

That basement is huge, but when 16 women come in with everything they need for several days of creating, suddenly huge doesn’t feel quite so huge.

I talked to one of the ladies about it.

Yep.

More shelving.

Okay.

Problem identified.

Problem goes on Melissa’s list.

And Melissa’s list is currently approximately 14 miles long.

The next day, another call.

One of the mini-splits was leaking.

Mother trucker.

We called the company. They came out. They handled it.

Another problem solved.

These mini-splits are going to be the death of me, by the way.

One tiny electrical issue, drainage issue, wiring issue, or apparently the wrong phase of the moon and these stupid things can shut down, leak, freeze or decide they’re simply no longer participating in society.

And right now, because this house is still new to us, everything scares me.

Every crack.

Every sound.

Every drip.

Every weird smell.

Every time somebody says, “Hey Melissa, I noticed something…”

My brain immediately goes:

THE HOUSE IS FALLING DOWN. … Isn’t not.

I know that will eventually stop.

We’ll learn the house.

We’ll know its sounds.

We’ll know its quirks.

We’ll know what is actually a problem and what is simply an old, enormous house being an old, enormous house.

But right now?

I’m paranoid as hell.

Still, I thought Sugar & Spice worked.

Elevator had a meltdown?

Handled it.

Mini-split leaked?

Handled it.

Women downstairs laughing and creating?

Yep.

House still gorgeous?

Absolutely.

Potential?

More than I can explain.

Sugar.

Spice.

Both.

But sometimes it isn’t the broken things that make me wonder if I can do this.

Sometimes it’s people.

I had a woman message me recently because she wanted to market her marketing services to me.

Her approach was interesting.

She essentially told me that including my family, my personal life and what is happening with my husband’s cancer in the way I talk about this business was disgusting.

Disgusting? Wow.

Now, I try very hard not to burn bridges.

I try not to react emotionally.

I try to remind myself that everyone gets to have an opinion.

But this one hit differently.

I told her she offended me.

And I asked a pretty simple question:

If your job is marketing and hospitality, and your first interaction with a potential client is to deeply offend them…

how exactly is that good marketing?

But here’s what she couldn’t possibly know.

She happened to send that message directly into the most vulnerable part of me.

Because I question this all the time.

Chris has an aggressive, incurable cancer.

Time is no longer some abstract thing in our house.

Time sits at the dinner table with us.

Time goes to radiation with us.

Time gets in the car with us.

Time is constantly whispering,

Are you sure this is how you want to spend me?

And there are days when I am at Outcrop cleaning, organizing, invoicing, building something, fixing something, answering messages or obsessing over some stupid shelf and I think:

What the f am I doing?

Should I be doing this?

Should I be spending this time with him instead?

Am I selfish for building something this big right now?

Chris thinks about it too.

We talk about it.

There is guilt tangled up in this dream in ways I don’t think people can see from the outside.

So when someone tells me that sharing my husband and my family has no place in this business, she isn’t criticizing my marketing strategy.

She’s poking the exact bruise I’m already pressing on every single day.

Because I don’t know how to separate the two.

Outcrop isn’t happening instead of our life.

Outcrop is happening inside our life.

And right now, our life includes cancer.

It also includes laughter.

And soccer.

And apparently IKEA.

Sunday morning, I had plans.

Good plans.

Chris and I were going to get coffee and a pastry at one of my favorite places in Denver. Then we were going shopping. Eventually we’d head to Outcrop and work on some things together.

Yes, technically the afternoon would still revolve around Outcrop.

But we’d be together.

And right now, together matters.

We’re sitting there talking when my husband casually drops a nuclear bomb.

He’s going to play soccer.

Excuse me?

Let me make sure I understand.

You.

The man with stage IV cancer.

The man with a tumor affecting his airway.

The man CURRENTLY GETTING RADIATION.

Would like to go run around a soccer field?

For 90 minutes?

There is a saying in our family.

Broken ankle?

Tired?

Don’t feel good?

Something hard needs to get done?

I ain’t no bitch.

That’s basically our family motto.

And this man looks at me and says:

“I ain’t no bitch. I want to play soccer.”

Well.

What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

Go play soccer.

Of course you should.

Have the best fn time.

I’ll just sit here quietly imagining every possible medical emergency while pretending I’m totally fine.

So off he went.

I decided I’d use the time to catch up on invoicing.

I had recently put out a scary message telling everyone that if balances weren’t paid, spots could be at risk.

I am also notorious for moving too fast.

It’s not that I don’t pay attention to detail.

It’s that apparently I believe I can bend the laws of time.

Which brings us to another thing about me.

If I say something will take 30 minutes, Chris automatically knows it will take three hours.

He has learned this.

I have not.

So I’m doing invoices when Chris calls.

He played the WHOLE DAMN GAME.

Ninety minutes.

He’s pumped.

He feels great.

And now he wants to come get me and do all the shopping we had planned.

Perfect.

I just need five more minutes.

Anyone who knows me already knows where this is going.

I started rushing.

And I sent the wrong invoices to the wrong retreat group.

I didn’t notice immediately.

I noticed while we were driving to IKEA and messages started coming in from mildly panicked women saying things like:

“Melissa… I don’t think I’m signed up for this retreat.”

Mother trucker.

Of course you’re not.

Because I sent you someone else’s invoice.

Excellent work, Melissa.

Excellent.

Now, the entire reason we were going to IKEA was because I had projects.

Plural.

Chris told me to pick one.

That was adorable.

I don’t love the purple bookcases on the back wall of the event center. That side of the room already feels darker. We need more shelving. I wanted to move the refrigerator. I wanted shelving near the bathroom. I wanted to hang photos and create an art gallery.

I had ideas.

Lots of ideas.

So Chris decided he would drive me and the dog to IKEA.

The dog couldn’t go inside, so he would sit in the car with him while I ran in and grabbed what I needed.

Again:

One project.

He should have known better.

This is entirely his fault.

When I came walking out with a massive shopping cart filled with things that were entirely too heavy for me to lift, you should have seen his face.

It was this incredible combination of wanting to yell at me, disappointment, confusion, and the realization that he had married me and therefore had absolutely nobody else to blame.

I thought we could get it all done.

No problem.

Because apparently I had forgotten everything we’ve learned about my relationship with time.

We got to Outcrop and unloaded everything.

Chris started building the shelving unit that I had confidently announced would take 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, I decided to wash the trash cans.

There are 16 small trash cans in the event center alone, plus the big trash can.

Quick side note, ladies:

When we say we’ll take your trash out and you don’t need to worry about it, that means you do not need to empty the trash cans.

It does not mean the floor has become a trash can.

And I’m not talking about a rogue soda can or candy wrapper.

I’m talking about paper.

You know the paper.

The little pieces of paper we all love so much.

If my vacuum cannot suck it up, please put that shit in the trash can.

I love you.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

So I start cleaning trash cans.

Three hours later…

I’m still cleaning.

And Chris is just finishing the shelf that was supposed to take 30 minutes.

We moved the refrigerator.

Then moved it back.

Then looked at the shelving.

Then realized I hadn’t bought enough shelving to do what was in my head anyway.

But you know what?

It’s a start.

It doesn’t have decorations yet, so my brain thinks it’s ugly.

Then I look at it again and think it’s kind of cute.

Then I hate it again.

Then I like it.

The truth is, I am not currently positive how I feel about approximately 75% of the things happening in this house.

But I think the shelves will serve their purpose.

Progress.

Sugar.

Maybe spice.

Then I decided to move a workbench table I had built.

Big.

Heavy.

Sturdy.

At least I believed it was sturdy.

Until the legs fell off.

The entire fucking thing crashed to the ground.

I just stood there.

This was the moment Sugar & Spice officially died.

New blog title:

Sugar & What the French Toast Is Happening?

WHY DID THE LEGS FALL OFF THE TABLE?

Chris, being extremely helpful, informed me that apparently I hadn’t tightened the bolts properly.

Wonderful.

That’s reassuring considering I BUILT MOST OF THE STUFF IN THIS HOUSE.

Now I’m mentally picturing every piece of furniture I’ve ever assembled spontaneously collapsing beneath innocent retreat guests.

While Chris is crawling around finding bolts, I go underneath the sink to grab another trash bag.

And discover…

A swimming pool.

Not a little drip.

Not some dampness.

Not a tiny leak.

I’m talking about what appeared to be a faucet turned on underneath the damn sink.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

We keep supplies under there. Paper towels. Cleaning supplies. Extra towels. Trash bags. Normal stuff.

We’ve never seen any evidence of a leak.

But now?

Water.

Everywhere.

Sugar & What the French Toast Is Happening Right Now?

Chris shut the water off.

We couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.

We cleaned everything up.

Put a bucket underneath it.

And my husband’s solution was:

“We should go to bed.”

Sir.

There is water coming out from underneath my sink.

There are approximately 87 other sinks in this giant house.

How exactly do you expect me to SLEEP?

Eventually, we went upstairs.

It was raining.

Which meant every raindrop hitting the house sounded like another catastrophic problem to me.

Was that water?

What’s that noise?

Is something leaking?

Did something crack?

I know this paranoia won’t last forever.

But right now, every noise in this house has me convinced bankruptcy is approximately seven minutes away.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

And then…

THE FIRE ALARM WENT OFF.

Ladies.

I PANICKED.

I was awake instantly.

Chris started going through the house.

Every level.

Every room.

Every bathroom.

Every nook.

Every cranny.

I’m finding the fire extinguisher.

I’m checking outside.

I’m checking the garage.

I’m basically mentally evacuating 7,000 square feet of house while my husband is moving with the urgency of a man deciding what he’d like for breakfast.

There was no fire.

Obviously.

He tells me it’s probably because we recently changed the batteries.

I’m thinking he’s insane.

Then the alarm stops.

He says:

“Is there a fire?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

AND GOES BACK TO BED.

Excuse me?

Meanwhile, my brain has moved on.

Maybe it was carbon monoxide.

Why would it shut off?

Why did the sink suddenly start leaking?

And then…

Dateline entered the chat.

Somebody is in the house.

Obviously.

There is a murderer hiding somewhere inside Outcrop Manor.

He loosened the plumbing.

He triggered the fire alarm.

This is all part of an elaborate plan to kill us.

It is the only reasonable explanation.

This is exactly why I should not be allowed to watch Dateline.

I became so convinced there was a murderer somewhere in the house that I woke my husband up and made HIM lock the door because I was too afraid to leave the room.

Apparently, stage IV cancer, radiation and 90 minutes of soccer were not enough for the poor man that day.

He also had to protect me from the imaginary Dateline murderer.

The next morning, I looked like absolute hell.

Then my phone rang.

The cleaners.

They’re not coming.

They double-booked.

They’re short a person.

They can maybe come later in the week.

Or next week.

Nope.

The blog title has officially changed again.

There is no more Sugar.

There is no Spice.

There is no French Toast.

We have graduated.

The blog is now simply called:

What the Fuck.

Chris looked at me.

“I’m going to get you a fancy coffee.”

I stared at him.

“Do you want Izzy’s in Bennett?”

I nodded.

No words.

Just coffee.

So he leaves.

I start laundry.

Projects canceled.

Today, apparently, I’m the cleaning crew.

I’m turning over the house.

And this time I can’t even blame my horrible understanding of time.

The cleaners fell through.

So I’m washing.

Cleaning.

Moving.

I’m in the zone.

Then Chris comes back with my coffee.

A blended iced mocha.

Oh my God.

Coffee.

Beautiful, glorious coffee.

Possibly the only thing holding my sanity together at this point.

I set it on one of the posts along the banister overlooking the staircase.

I’m talking to Chris.

I turn around to grab something.

My braid hits the cup.

And I watch, in slow motion, as my beautiful coffee falls from the top floor…

down to the second-floor entryway…

and EXPLODES.

On the wall.

On the floor.

On the entryway.

Toward the back door.

There is coffee fucking everywhere.

I just stood there looking at it.

Chris looked at me.

I looked at Chris.

And in that moment, the title changed one final time.

Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

And maybe that is actually the name of this story.

Because here’s the thing.

This place is not perfect.

We aren’t perfect.

I am learning how to own a retreat center while learning an enormous house while building a business while loving a husband with stage IV cancer while trying to understand how much time we have and how we want to spend it.

Sometimes I screw up invoices.

Sometimes elevators stop.

Sometimes sinks leak.

Sometimes tables literally fall apart.

Sometimes your cleaners don’t show up.

And sometimes the coffee you desperately needed to survive the cleaners not showing up flies over a second-story railing and explodes across your house.

But then there are women downstairs laughing.

There are friendships being made.

There are people who walk through the doors as guests and hug me when they leave.

There are women already asking if they can come back next year.

There are little things left behind that make me laugh.

There are projects spread across tables and women staying up entirely too late because nobody wants the night to end.

There is my husband, in the middle of radiation, playing 90 minutes of soccer because cancer doesn’t get to decide everything.

And there is us.

Still building.

Still fixing.

Still laughing.

Still choosing this ridiculous dream.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to build a polished retreat center where you come, pay us money, stay for four days and leave.

I want to build something women feel part of.

I want the women who come here now to someday walk through these rooms and say, “Oh my God, remember when that shelf wasn’t there?”

I want you to see the beginning.

I want you to watch this place grow.

I want your ideas.

I want the traditions you accidentally start.

I want the stories.

I want the laughter.

I even want the moments when you tell me, “Melissa, you need another damn shelf.”

Because maybe Outcrop isn’t just something Chris and I are building.

Maybe all of you are building it with us.

And years from now, when this house finally feels settled and I finally know which sound means old house being an old house instead of WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE, I hope some of you will be sitting downstairs remembering what it was like in the beginning.

Before everything was figured out.

Before everything was polished.

Back when we were just a couple of crazy people trying to build something meaningful during one of the hardest seasons of our lives.

I don’t know exactly what Outcrop will become.

But I know what I want it to feel like.

Not transactional.

Not perfect.

Not corporate.

Personal.

A place where you belong.

A place where you’re known.

A place you come back to.

A place whose story you somehow became part of.

So maybe this blog isn’t called Sugar & Spice after all.

Maybe it’s about the sugar.

And the spice.

And the water leaks.

And the cancer.

And the laughter.

And the invoices sent to the wrong people.

And the shelves.

And the soccer games.

And the imaginary murderers.

And the coffee dripping off the damn walls.

Maybe it’s simply the story of building something beautiful while real life keeps happening around us.

And if you choose to be part of Outcrop while we’re figuring all of this out, I hope someday you realize something:

You weren’t just here to watch the story.

You were part of it.