40somethingmag - Kat Marie - It-s A Great Fucki... Apr 2026

The party went until 1 AM. We sang “Something to Talk About” so loud the downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling—but rhythmically, like he was joining in.

So here’s to great ideas. And here’s to the even greater mess they leave behind. At least we know exactly how much olive oil we deserve. (Spoiler: all of it.) Kat Marie is a 40-something freelance writer and recovering renovator living in Chicago. Her next great idea involves backyard chickens. Mark is building a fence.

Getting it up to my third-floor walk-up took two hours, a case of beer for the neighbor’s nephew, and the permanent loss of feeling in my left thumb. 40SomethingMag - Kat Marie - It-s a great fucki...

When the guests arrived, they didn’t see a failed renovation. They saw a woman drinking Chianti out of a jelly jar, blasting Bonnie Raitt, with a stack of pizza boxes labeled “Artisanal Flatbreads.”

“It’s a vibe,” I said, pouring oat milk into my coffee with the confidence of a woman who has never tried to wire a 220-volt appliance into a 120-volt kitchen. The party went until 1 AM

The oven, as it turns out, was in a dusty warehouse in New Jersey. The seller, a man named Vinny who smelled like regret and Pall Malls, loaded it into my SUV. “It’s a beaut,” he said. “Just don’t touch the right side. Or look at it wrong.”

I unplugged the beast. I opened all the windows. I ordered six large pizzas from the place on the corner that still uses a cash register. I dug out my old karaoke machine from the back of the hall closet (bought during the “Disco Moms” phase of 2019). And here’s to the even greater mess they leave behind

It’s a great idea… until it isn’t. By: Kat Marie, for 40SomethingMag

The moral of this lifestyle story isn’t “don’t try new things.” It’s that at 40-something, the entertainment is rarely the oven, the vacation, or the perfect party. The entertainment is watching your friends help you carry a 300-pound mistake back down three flights of stairs the next morning, laughing so hard that Vinny the oven guy gives you your money back just to make you stop.

My latest episode began last Tuesday at 11:47 PM. I was doom-scrolling in bed while my husband, Mark, did that thing where he pretends to be asleep so he doesn’t have to hear my ideas.

The reel was perfect. A woman my age, wearing a linen apron (who wears an apron to cook pasta?), was pulling a golden, blistered focaccia out of a retro Italian oven. The caption read: “Sourdough is for your 30s. Focaccia is for when you know exactly how much olive oil you deserve.”