How Much Did You Swallow?

*Insert me raising the mighty snow-globe of fate here, and waving it at you*

Here’s the deal. I’m trying to get this newly built blog up and running now that my writing hiatus is finished, and I am at a loss. Actually, I seem to running into an unforeseen circumstance. The medical term of which would be titled ‘Previous um habit of uninteruptus’.

The reality of which is now, ‘Sure, interrupt me anytime you want.’

You see, we’re redoing our new home. It’s an old home we’re making new again. It wasn’t as if I didn’t wait months before I started to pen my posts. I did, so I should be able to type and create with flagrant abandon, right?

But…it would seem as if Colonel Crabby, A.K.A Honey has a different idea.

*Here, please insert an image of me filing my nails, chewing on gum, blowing big, fat, pink bubbles to pop in the disgruntled Colonel’s face.*

I don’t know why when I say I’m working he hears, “When you need me I will drop everything and come to your call.” It’s a mystery.

Sometimes? I don’t mind, if you know what I mean, but other times? Yeah, it takes all my strength not to—well, never mind. I don’t want to be charged with premeditated anything should there be an accident. 😊

Haha!

So, there he is yesterday doing his work and I’m doing mine and he calls. To which I call back. To then which he yells, “Come on. I’m busting my balls here. It will only take a second.”

Ooh, kay. I’m actually counting to twenty here so I don’t get to him and let him have it. It’s tough reestablishing the old habit of blogging when he’s doing work in our house, that’s all I’m saying. My sure-fire process is being trounced.

Good times, right?

But then I get to the garage and there he is, holding up our new back door slider. It’s big. Really big, so I rush over to help.

“Jesus! *&^!##%”. I growl before I take an end of the doorframe and struggle with it. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

It was a rhetorical question people, and the man grins before answering, “No. I was trying to carry this *itch on my own, but I wound up humbling myself by asking for your help. I’m getting too old, babe.”

I mentally swipe an air hand to dismiss that comment. He couldn’t have carried this sucker by himself in his twenties.

Sheesh.

I’m still struggling with it, trying to keep the heavy glass perpendicular with both arms and a little knee action. All the while thinking, ‘The guy’s not old, he’s delusional and crazy for attempting this on his own’. “Are you nuts?”

He doesn’t blink. “Are you finished?”

*Looks right at you as I think*

Not even close.

There I am telling him we need to get a blanket under it, or a couple of straps, we need to set up my new scaffolding—I so wanted to try it, or if not, maybe we needed some two by fours to walk the frame over them.

And there he is. Sweating in the heat and patiently waiting for…?

I frown. “What?”

“You’re picking it up and we’re walking it in there ourselves.”

Before I can make any one of these replies below...

“No.”

“You’re crazy.”

Or…

“There is no possible way. It’s too heavy and I might drop the frame. Glass will shatter and we’ll both be bleeding without benefit of person to call the ambulance!”

He jostles his end higher and starts walking.

What’s a woman to do?

Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I grasped that sucker more tightly and pushed the walk because what kind of guy expects a shrimp like me to shoulder a 102 x 78 inch patio door that weighs more than the two of us put together?

I don’t even lose my focus when he grits out, “Hey, slow down. Stop pushing. Easy.”

And, there’s me. “You are old. Quit complaining. Get a move on.”

I thought he was going to drop his end when he burst out laughing. “Man, I was worried this door was kicking my ass and then you showed up.”

This wasn’t good. Those words sounded as if he was making future plans of bossing me around with more slave-from-me donation time.

Not going to happen.

And, I’m telling you right now, if that slider didn’t look so FAB after install an hour later, I might not have made him a great dinner that night.

But, I did. I’m nice like that.

As for Honey? He’s on a mission. I keep thinking Rome wasn’t built in a day, and yet, his fast-paced schedule suggests in his reality it was built in half a day with an eager <-that’s how bossy he is about getting help->slave to schlep for him when he calls.

Man, it was so much easier in our last house when we remodeled. We had the kids who he could easily boss around.

Yeah, to think I ignored their complaints back then. Now they’re ignoring mine when I text them the latest Dad updates. Riveting stuff like your Dad made me empty forty-seven bales of insulation into a machine. Truthfully, that wasn’t so bad. I actually got a design idea for a new outfit in the process. Think corduroy meets pom-poms, only in a chic way. Maybe black instead of multi-colored cotton vomited on me.

Then there was the infamous afternoon recently, when we moved the double vanity into our Jack and Jill bath area. I’m insisting it will fit, he’s saying it won’t. I know it will and he’s huffing out words as we struggle to get it in a position. Fatalistic dialogue like he’s installed a thousand of these and this one (presumably because it ours) isn’t going in without him getting the saw and cutting into the wall.

*Puts up a hand to pause for a moment, here*

I am adamant this sucker is going in because I wasn’t carrying it back out the meager distance we already struggled to get it this far. So, he could obsess over the new measurement all he wanted. Seriously, there is nothing sexy, interesting, or tantalizing listening to a guy try to explain the difference between an eighth and a quarter. Don’t get me started about the sixteenths. I don’t want to know. I really don’t.

So, there’s me becoming an instant savant with fractures of a different kind. It was more the degrees of angles we had to work to get this vanity in. It was up on one end, low on the other. Sideways a fracture and tip to right, left, but not too high. You get me?

*Looks at you hard here* It was surgery, guys. Like laser surgery getting this to work.

But, yay! It did.

There’s me that day, brushing off my hands, accepting the big bear hug and basking in the compliments of doing a great job until he says, “I can really use you when I need to move those cabinets into the laundry room. I was going to call a few of the guys, but now I don’t have to.”

I am choking at this point—literally on the thought of becoming his subcontractor. I’d started the theme, after all, with the slider, remember?

Damn.

I cough harder.

And there he is practically beating me on the back asking me if I’m okay?

Okay? OKAY???

Not even close. I needed some way to get out of being his unpaid helper. Slave. Schlep.

He wasn’t going to call the guys?

Yikes.

I wrap my hand around my throat like Norma Desmond used to do before asking for a close up on her academy award performance, and let it fly. “I can’t breathe. I’m…I…I’m gasping for breath.” I point in several different directions toward all the dust around the room. “I’m choking because I swallowed a whole pile of that white crap that you’ve left all over the place.” I lied. Can you blame me?

He does a quick glance at the substance in question, and then scowls. “Damn. How much did you swallow? We may need to call poison control.”

*Stares right at you before I mentally drag my hands down the sides of my face*

Foiled again.

Yup, it would seem I can’t even lie to the guy in order to get out of the work. Poison control? WTH? What was in that stuff?

Great, just great. Fixing one problem has opened up a whole can of more work-worms for me to meander through. And, ah, next time I’ll be wearing a mask when he calls, I’m telling you that.

Turns out? The white stuff was some sort of glass sand he uses for something. I wasn’t even listening. I didn’t have time. My fibs were stacking up and I figured I’d have to get out of having to call an ambulance by telling him the one truth. I was overacting on the gasps. Hm. Also, turns out, so was he. He said the white stuff was too heavy to fly to be inhaled so?

He caught me lying.

Sneaky bastard.

Perfect. Now I figure I’m going to be stuck doing his schlep stuff for a while because I feel bad about the lie.

Double perfect.

Hey, how are you guys doing? Good? Anyone catch you lying lately? Asks Riley who’s ready for a vacation and I haven’t even started my blogging in earnest.

Blerg!

I should have let him carve out that wall. That’s all I’m saying.

As always, thanks for stopping by!

Riley