I am set to visit our house in Las Vegas, where my husband John resides while I hold down the fort, so to speak, in our southern Oregon home. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to get to Vegas, the Pandemic, my work here, grandchildren watching responsibilities, and even more taxing, doing a lot of home improvements on our 1942 home. I’ll be going to Vegas for a week, and I asked my husband a huge favor, one I hope he will grant me. I’ve asked if he would please, pretty please get the floor done. Two years ago, John pulled up the floor in the kitchen and the living room and has yet to complete the job. In fact, when I was there a year ago it was me that got us to Home Depot to purchase the subfloor and together, we installed the pieces. I swear, if I go for that visit the first week in May and the floor isn’t done, I may just blow a gasket, just like I did when I asked him to install a dishwasher once.
John is an excellent worker, that is, he takes the job that pays him a salary very seriously. Working around the house, however, landscaping, construction, or even general maintenance is not his forte. He just has never been a handyman at home, not unless I urge, cajole, beg him to do a project. When he does set his mind to it, he does it and does it well. But it’s like the proverbial pulling teeth to get him to want to work on our house. For example, the first home we ever owed went for the eighteen years we lived there with most of the plug outlets without a plate to cover them! He just didn’t seem to think it necessary to take the time to fix that little aesthetic feature. Yes, I could have done the job myself, but come on, isn’t that his job? After all, I cooked, cleaned, watched the kids, schlepped them everywhere – you know what I’m getting at. So, when we sold our first home and looked for another, I balked at the property and house he had in mind.
Sitting on a half-acre is the home we’ve owned since 2005. When he first took me there to see it, I said an adamant, “No way! Look at this place, John. There are no trees, the steps to go into the back door are cinder blocks, and the inside, it needs so much work!” His response was laughable. “I promise, I’ll do it all myself.” But he convinced me it was a good deal and well, he did promise. I will admit that over the years he has done some great home improvements. He took out a door that was in a wonky place and created a solid wall. He and my uncle built a beautiful deck and stairs, replacing the blocks. So, should I complain? Why does it take me becoming one of those nagging housewives to get anything done? Or worse, a screaming hag or a woman that falls silent for days. One time I got my message across in a most interesting way.
A friend of our’s was doing a kitchen remodel and asked John if we would like the dishwasher he was replacing with a newer model. John said yes and with pride brought home the dishwasher to replace our aging one. For three weeks that dishwasher sat on the back of his pickup truck, one that he used only for hauling big items. It was on a Saturday that I pretty please asked him to install it. His friend Sean was there, and John said, “Sure will. We just need to go to Home Depot to get some tools.” I was thrilled! That is, until two hours later he wasn’t yet home. I called his cell. “Where are you,” I asked. He replied, “Sean and I just stopped at the Draft House for a quick beer.” I saw red. My hand on the phone turned white from my grip. I hung up the phone. Fuming, I started washing the dishes that I had hoped to clean in my newly installed appliance. As I looked down at the plate in my hands, a thought came to me. “I know how to solve this,” I said. The next thing that happened was every single dish in the water, and in the cupboards was smashed to bits on the floor. I then walked into our bedroom and closed the door. Honestly, it was one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. That is, until the children came into the house and shouted, “Mom! What happened?” I didn’t answer and John, knowing how pissed I was had also shown up.
He opened the bedroom door and before he could speak, I said, “Don’t worry, I don’t need a dishwasher anymore.” He tried to tell me I was being unreasonable; I said some words back. He left the room. Fifteen minutes later he and Sean had the damnable dishwasher installed. Three weeks and fifteen minutes and is all it took. And, all my dishes smashed, but hey, it got the job done. I realized later that I would now need to go out and purchase a whole new set.
What’s going to happen when I open the door to my Las Vegas home in a few weeks? Will there be a floor, or will I have to get a crowbar to make my point?