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鈥檚 what makes our life together so much fun. Ask him, he鈥檒l tell you.听
We鈥檝e lived in our new house for a month now and slowly it鈥檚 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鈥檛 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鈥檛 judge our home decor (like how I didn鈥檛 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鈥檛 even been allowed in the garage since we arrived. I don鈥檛 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鈥檚 an organized chaos that only he can interpret. It鈥檚 for my own safety, he said. Right. Okay. I see how this is going to be.
Yet by New Year鈥檚 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 鈥渨as.鈥� One night I came home from work to find several of my favourite art pieces hung on walls in places that wouldn鈥檛 have been my choice (ie. 鈥� raccoons in the washroom. Don鈥檛 ask.)听 Too late. Holes were now in walls, pictures were hung. He couldn鈥檛 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,听 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鈥檇 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鈥檛 at all helpful, which is why he put up most of the art without consultation while I was absent. I wouldn鈥檛 have been helpful. Huh.
Questioning the accuracy of the bubble in the centre of the level and cracking comments on being 鈥渙n the level鈥� is also, apparently, not helpful, funny or at all encouraged. Noted.听
Raccoon images in the bathroom aside, I鈥檓 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鈥檓 still not allowed in the garage though. Future goals.
