I was only trying to help; I just happened to marry a man who does not want my help at the times when I genuinely feel I would be most helpful to him. That’s what makes our life together so much fun. Ask him, he’ll tell you.
We’ve lived in our new house for a month now and slowly it’s starting to feel like home, though for weeks our garage was stuffed to the brim with boxes, furniture and giant totes full of things we didn’t label. Mystery boxes are fun, right?
Christmas put a temporary halt to unpacking. We had a naked Christmas tree right up until two days before Santa was to arrive simply because the decorations were somewhere in the abyss of the garage. We could only hope that Santa wouldn’t judge our home decor (like how I didn’t judge him for not bringing my Toyota 4Runner again. Or snow pants. Seriously, dude, what gives?)
Slowly but surely, we have sorted through most of the piles. Oh, who am I kidding? I haven’t even been allowed in the garage since we arrived. I don’t even know where the light switch is. It was incredible how quickly my husband, the Carpenter, staked claim to his domain. He even insisted I not enter the premises because it’s an organized chaos that only he can interpret. It’s for my own safety, he said. Right. Okay. I see how this is going to be.
Yet by New Year’s Eve, the Carpenter and I completed one important task: we hung art on the walls. This was to be a team effort. Note the past tense of the word “was.” One night I came home from work to find several of my favourite art pieces hung on walls in places that wouldn’t have been my choice (ie. – raccoons in the washroom. Don’t ask.) Too late. Holes were now in walls, pictures were hung. He couldn’t wait. Garage needed clearing. Best intentions (control issues). Yadda, yadda.
As if the Carpenter predicted my displeasure, he left several of my favourite photographs and personal art pieces to be organized for display. So there we stood, in the main hallway with stacks of framed photos of our children, family memories, artwork from local artists too, trying to map out the geography of the blank walls. My job was to sort out which images went where; his job was to find the stud, tap in hanging nails and ensure everything was level.
As he knocked on the walls listening for the solid sound of the framing stud, I knocked on his shoulders and declared, I’d found a stud too (snort). Guys, this is funny. Women like stud-finder jokes. It never gets old. Yet, according to the Carpenter, not only had my joke expired, it wasn’t at all helpful, which is why he put up most of the art without consultation while I was absent. I wouldn’t have been helpful. Huh.
Questioning the accuracy of the bubble in the centre of the level and cracking comments on being “on the level” is also, apparently, not helpful, funny or at all encouraged. Noted.
Raccoon images in the bathroom aside, I’m in love with our cozy new home and the way our past memories are the decor for our future. Compromise on art is an art in itself, just like marriage. I’m still not allowed in the garage though. Future goals.
