I subscribe to the wise adage that says the sign of a good marriage is a well-bitten tongue. My husband probably doesn’t agree that I subscribe to this, but, oh, I really do. I think I do even more when it comes to home renovation.
My husband and I have been married for almost thirty years. He is my soul mate. But, yes, we are different people and, no, we don’t always agree on how things should be done. Of course, I’m always right. And, of course, he never listens.
And so I bite my tongue. Well, I try to.
Here’s an example.
We’re working on this kitchen renovation project. We’ve been at it for more than a year and it’s coming along great. When I say “we’re working on it,” I mean I’m the creative brain and my husband is the mechanical brawn. In other words, I tell him what to do and he does it. How can it get any better than that?
So, the latest phase is cabinetry, specifically some cool cubbies customized to fit at 45-degree angles around the microwave positioned in the corner (not exactly calculation-free construction). My husband’s first response is, “No, that’s not going to work.” I come back with, “Sure, we’ll just do this and we’ll just do that…” We, meaning he. He obligingly builds the cabinets, hoists them into place, stains and varnishes them.
My contribution to this project, beyond the creative instruction? Not much…aside from gleefully filling the cubbies with cute little apothecary jars that, when all totaled, will probably cost more than the oak wood for the cabinetry because my husband cut down the trees himself and planed the wood. Are you getting the picture here just how much of this kitchen he’s actually doing?
So, when he inadvertently slathers polyurethane on my new microwave because five minutes of prep work seems unreasonable, should I say anything? Or, if his idea of a finely sanded finish is slightly rougher than mine, dare I criticize? Not if I want this cool kitchen project to continue.
Instead, while he’s off to his day job, I whip out the 800-grit paper for a few extra buffs and I apply protective masking tape before the next coat of finish. And I bite my tongue.
Finally, I write about it here, because as private as the Internet is, I doubt he’ll ever see it.
Ah, relief for the well-bitten tongue.
Several years ago my husband decided he’d heard enough of my whining. He decided that, perhaps, if he helped me work from home rather than the office I continuously whined about, I’d shut my mouth and give him some peace.
