No More Home Improvement

Webster's Dictionary defines Home Improvement as being or related to a project to make one's house better, bigger, more modern, etc.; long past time for some home improvements.

My definition: Something that is a bad idea for an aesthetically challenged person like myself that can drag on for weeks and cost a small fortune.

My question is: Can I survive a home renovation project that's been going on for what feels like months, even though it has only been a few weeks? Right now I'm having my doubts as I watch him pile our bedroom furniture all over the house. I can't get near my bathtub. I'll be going through some serious withdrawal if I can take a jacuzzi bubble bath soon.

David and I (and by that I mean David) started this epic journey by tackling a major do-it-yourself home improvement project. What started as a minor paint job morphed into a significant decorating ordeal.

My definition of do-it-yourself—David does it, and I hide in case he wants to ask me my opinion on something.

Home improvement is kind of like cleaning house—it tends to snowball. When you dust, you notice the floors need vacuuming and mopping, so while you're cleaning the floors, you see that the windows haven't been cleaned lately (at least not in the last decade)—well you get the picture.

So, now we–meaning David–have painted all the walls, baseboards and window sills, replaced the carpet in the living room, and added new flooring throughout the rest of the house. If he threatens to take on any more home improvement projects, I swear I'm going to make him get a part-time job just to get him out of the house. Lowe's would be a good place for him since we spend most of our time and money there, anyway. Our granddaughters, Mica and McKenzie, used to refer it to Papa's Walmart. We drug them there so often when they were growing up I bet they could find almost anything you're looking for.

If it were left up to me, this house would look exactly the same as it did when we moved in, only 17 years older. Anyway, I should have known better, but I got enamored with the idea of fresh coats of paint and new flooring so off we went to the local home improvement store where we moseyed over to the flooring aisle and spent an entire afternoon staring at the extensive selection of floor options, trying to picture what it'd look like on an entire floor. By now, my eyes had glazed over. There were just too many types of flooring to choose from.

David studied each sample stuck to the display wall as if he were in an art gallery, while I stared at my phone. As hard as I tried to remain barely interested, he insisted that I get involved. It went something like this:

David: Should we get laminate or vinyl?

Me: What's the difference?

David: One's waterproof, the other one is water-resistant.

Me: With 14 grandkids and two great-grandsons I'd say we better go with the waterproof one.

David: Okay, what color?

Me: Color?

David: Yeah, light or dark? What do you want?

What I want is for it to magically appear, installed, without him asking me to decide.

He pressured me into making a decision, so I panicked and blurted out, "The brown one." That was not the answer he was looking for.

"They're all brown. Could you narrow it down a bit?" he asked, giving me an exasperated look.

I didn't want to rush into anything since this is a major decision that will impact our lives for the next 15 or 20 years (I hope) when we won't have to make any more decisions like this since we'll probably be dead, then our kids can deal with it.

I wonder how hard it'll be for them to sell a house decorated in what our brother-in-law whimsically referred to as "Mexican Restaurant" chic? Oh, well, it won't be our problem when we're gone. I wonder if our kids have ever thought of what they'll have to do to unloa...I mean sell...our house? Just sorting through almost 50 years of crap will be challenging enough. That's what happens when you leave two old farts alone to accumulate and decorate. LOL.

So now I'm sitting in my recliner, pretending to be productive and hoping he'll not need any assistance. Every half hour or so I'll stroll through the bedroom to the bathroom to catch a glimpse of his progress, give out an exaggerated sigh at the thought of having to put everything back in its place when he's finally done with the floor and circle back to my recliner.