Recently, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary. Well, celebrated is not the right word. My husband and I are Jehovah Witnesses when it comes to our anniversaries. We tend not to make a big deal out of them. We hold off on the celebrations until it’s a milestone, and then we go all out as we did when we renewed our vows at the Elvis Chapel in Vegas.
However, this habit of ours drives my daughter crazy. She likes to celebrate everything, and we do make a big deal of celebrating each one of her minor and major life events as well as those of our dogs. However, this last anniversary she insisted on knowing what my dream present from my husband would be. No lie: this is what I told her:
“One day, I would love to see in my driveway… a contractor’s truck. I dream about seeing a professional contractor in my house all the time. He could be muscular, fat, handsome or the ugliest S.O.B to walk the planet, but if he has a general contractor’s license and good referrals, I am his.”
She didn’t even blink an eye because she understands; she knows her father. My husband, the engineer, likes to do everything himself. I will give him kudos on the quality of his work. He can build, mend and create anything. All I have to do is give him a half-assed sketch, and it can be done as long as I don’t mind allowing him a five-year window to create said project. And it is in this five-year window where my kitchen now sits.
Last August, for our anniversary which was not a big milestone so I should have known better than to request a gift, I asked for a new kitchen, and to my surprise my husband climbed right on board. We started the construction. And when I say “WE” I mean“WE”. I am the assistant. I hold, measure, sand, and if he is in a generous mood, use his power saw. There was a fence project mishap the year before that put me on power tool probation for a while but in my defense, it was not my fault and my neighbor did not need that rose bush that her mother planted and there was only one squirrel fatality, but that rodent should not have been sitting there anyway.
Oh yeah, the kitchen. Well, we did the countertops and were anxious to move on to the backsplash and cabinetry, but his new project schedule at work interfered with our construction schedule, and the weeks dragged into months and my kitchen was still a disaster. But I remained supportive,
“Don’t worry as long as we have it done by the holidays.”
After we toasted the New Year in our still-under-construction kitchen, I asked,
“What are we looking at? Easter?”
But that is when umpiring season began, and since he umps baseball and fastpitch softball for all ages, I didn’t see him until late July. Then it was golf league and now a year later, I still have no backsplash and my cabinets are not done and my microwave has a broken handle which I never fixed because I thought we would be replacing it soon and so long story short—okay, not so short—this is why I want a contractor to call my own.
So, while women dream of diamonds and flowers and romantic getaways with couple massages, I dream of a truck in my driveway owned by a guy in droopy jeans with his butt crack showing making my kitchen whole again. Ah, romance, it is so special!