I think I made a face that would resemble Jim Carrey sucking on a lemon when Brunhilda stormed into the room; and Brunhilda – always on the offensive in these wars – was ready for my weak opposition to this anticipated raid on my wallet. (Not that money is everything, but I have found it to be a suitable substitute for poverty.) “It’s only 2 weeks to Bathsheba’s graduation!” she shrilled.
Allow me to give you a great big clue here and help you handicap out the outcome of any argument regarding my humble abode. I have as much chance as a fatted calve being led to the slaughterhouse. I could whine a little, but the outcome of the discussion as to whether or not to re-do the entire house for a bunch of people who were only going to be here for a few hours to eat free food and drink my beer was easier to handicap than a Cuban election.
Now, I am the last person to claim the gift of prophesy, but I can tell when there are going to be an excess of tools, ladders, and sore bones in my future, (all items for which I have the same level of enthusiasm as I have for second-hand underwear at a hillbilly rummage sale). Each time someone is about to finish high school I live my next month under a pretty dim star of destiny. I was going to be giving strong back and good billfold to the contractors coming into my home.
The next morning was the first day of the weekend. A fine day for sleeping late and resting. Brunhilda had other plans; however, that started with a pre-dawn raid. She stormed into the bedroom dumping tools and buckets and brushes and other various and sundry items at the foot of the bed. She left no stone unturned when looking for things to do to put on the dreaded “Honeydew” list. It was several volumes and looked like the world book encyclopedia. It would make the biblical apocalypse pale by comparison. I was going to be busier this weekend than the tooth fairy in caramel apple season.
Sometime around mid-day, while I was begging Brunhilda to put down her whip and give me a swallow of water, she actually asked my opinion as to whether we should go with tile or carpet in the bathroom. I am not sure why she, (or any woman for that matter), does that. None of my opinions count anyway! I think it is only to give me the false impression that I had some control over how my pockets were going to be picked. Every wife secretly walks away laughing at any opinion expressed by a husband, And any opinion I expess goes over like a pork chop during Passover.
Not only that, but my feelings about floor coverings are marked by overwhelming apathy. I do not care, nor do most men. The feeling of most men in the arena of decorating is that if the chair, the ottoman, and the TV are lined up in a straight line and there is a fridge and a bathroom under the same roof – the house is adequately decorated.
And so we attack the battle of home redecoration together. Brunhilda representing management and in charge of a work force of one so handy I can’t remove the child proof lid off of an aspirin bottle without an ax.
Deep inside I know the place needs it. It is a great house but the existing décor as we purchase it was uglier than a bowling and was probably decorated by the person who normally does the décor for bus stations and tire warehouses.
The projects will likely cost about the same as the entire contents of the Smithsonian. My creaky bones will likely not survive another project like this.