Tuesday, March 16, 2010


We have successfully remodeled Daughter #1's bedroom and we're still married!  It was questionable there for a bit, but just as the divorce papers arrived for signing, the last task was completed and we were saved. 

My husband is a contractor by trade - earning a living by remodeling rooms and such for people who are too lazy or less handy than he.  In his mind, this makes him the expert on the subject matter.  I, on the other hand, have made a 2nd career by virtue of completing literally hundred of DIY projects around the various homes in which I've lived, not to mention the thousands of hours of programming I've watched on HGTV education I've received. Therefore, the way I see it- I am the expert and he is simply a novice getting his feet wet in the industry. 

The fun always starts at Lowes.  I have a list and race in the store to start grabbing my items and tossing them into the buggy. As I toss the items in, he pulls them out and reads the instructions on them, questioning my decisions.  I don't give a shit about instructions - just slop the shit on, if it doesn't work, make it work or use some other shit.  That's how I roll.  He, on the other hand, likes to be 100% certain everything is "just so".  As a result, I spend most of my time at Lowes with my eyes rolled back into my head, muttering under my breath.  We wanted to paint a dresser black as a part of this little project, and after he'd finished reading the back of every can of paint in the store and relentlessly quizzing the help, he woke me up from my nap and I reluctantly crawled out of the buggy to go pay for our items. 

I wasn't sure we'd make it through the priming of the walls without killing each other - the primer wasn't going on correctly, it was clumping and peeling and not covering the walls at all.  He just stood back and left my pleas for help unanswered.  What.the.fuck is wrong with this paint?  Why.the.fuck will it not go on correctly?  Convinced it was ME who was not properly applying the paint, because you know how fucking hard it is to use that roller thingiemabopper, he finally grabbed the roller and set out to school me on how it's done.  Well it didn't roll on for him correctly either.  We finally just decided it would require two coats and continued on our path of destruction creation.

We argued over the proper order in which to paint the walls and trim.  I paint trim first, then paint walls.  He says the opposite is the correct way.  I like to stay busy and keep the various projects moving, he prefers to take long breaks between projects, waiting for each coat of paint to dry completely before starting the next step.  I move in sequence.  If you start on one wall, by the time you finish the last wall, the first wall is ready for coat #2. And so it goes.  Keep moving, I bark.  As we wait for coat #2 to dry, I start de-glossing the dresser.  He rolls his eys and says I'm doing it wrong and will fuck it up and tries to remove himself from the project team.  "I'm not fucking it up - I'm getting shit done - that is the reason I get more shit done in a day than you do - all this sitting around waiting for shit to dry is a fucking waste of your life- TIME IS MONEY!  TIME IS MONEY!"  Daughter #1 continues to work, following MY instruction - because clearly I am the brains of the operation here.  Daughter #2 is in tears because I won't let her paint or use the deglosser or the razor knife even though she has on her full Spider Man costume, including mask and protective eyewear.  The husband  points out a drip of paint that I've left behind - so I slap him across the face with my brush and leave his right cheek covered in white paint.  "Is that how it's done, Master?  Is that better?" 

By the time we went to bed on the first day, we had successfully gotten 2 coats of primer and one coat of paint on the walls, completed the trim, finished 1/2 of the cutting in and painted that damned dresser.  "See how much we got done doing it my way?"  I asked.  He didn't answer.  Likely because he knew I was right.  Day #2 - he needed to do the cutting in part up by the ceiling.  I don't do that.  Namely because he only has paint brushes that are geared more for painting the side of a barn and I'm just not that steady with the hand.  Daughter #1 and I set out to finish the rest of the wall painting - we were on a mission - we could finish this room by the end of day 2.  I just knew it.  I send the husband out to assemble a new ceiling fan while I steam clean the carpets in the room.  After about 1/2 hour, I go looking for him.  He's there - in the garage - looking at the unopened ceiling fan boxes.  What.the.fuck is he doing?  Jesus, I cannot leave him alone for a second and he get side tracked.  By what, I have no clue.  I help him assemble said fan - and it goes up. 

Next, on to the curtains. Well the old rods are too short, so we need to run to Hell Walmart for some new rods.  He thinks he'll take a break while we're gone - I can see it in his eyes - I tell him to keep moving - get the brackets hung while we're gone because that will mean he's a step ahead of us and we're not stuck waiting on him when we get back.  I can hear him as we leave - muttering something about the new rods will have new brackets, and then a bunch of jibberish that sounded like blah blah blah excuses excuses excuses to me.  Because I'm classy, I yell from my car window as we leave the driveway, "just get the fucking brackets on the wall before we get back!"  And also because I'm very mature and a good role model, I roll my eyes back into my head as I look at Daughter #1 and crank up the radio. 

We get back with the new rods and he's actually gotten the brackets up on the walls as demanded requested, but he's got some line string contraption thingie going and tells us how difficult it was to get them up there and get them level and yada yada yada blah blah blah.  I lovingly respond, "Hmm.  Okay, get that shit down off the wall and let's get these curtains hung.  We are a full day ahead of schedule here thanks to me." 

While he drags out wraps up the finishing touches in the room (I have NO clue what those were), I do 2 loads of laundry, scrub out the interior of the fridge, de-scum and scour a bathtub and cook and dice 10 pounds of potatoes I need for St. Patrick's Day.  He enters the kitchen and proclaims he needs to sit on the couch for the rest of the night because his feet and back hurt.  I again lovingly respond to his needs, "I'm working my ass off here and trying to get this shit done and my feet hurt too but I'm not stopping - do you see me stopping?"  So he hobbles into the kitchen and helps me finish my St. Patrick's Day preparations. 

This morning he made me coffee.  He hugged me.  He kissed me on the forehead.  I think it's a cover up for the plotting of my death that he has goin' on.  I think the hit man he hired instructed him to act that way toward me.  I'm suspect.  I'm taking the kids and myself to the torture chamber dentist this morning, then we're all going to get our hairs cut and our caterpillars trimmed this afternoon.  I think the husband is doing a happy dance right now - he says he is going to work.  I seriously doubt much work gets done by him when I'm not there to boss his ass around all day.  I bet if I bought out his company and appointed myself his foreman, we'd be millionaires.  I'm going to write that in my handy dandy notebook as something to consider for our future.  He'll appreciate that I think.

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