Diary of a SubUrban Housewife

It was home improvement night here at Casa Atkins.

I say night because it seems that, regardless of the fact that there might be nothing specific of the agenda for the day, all home improvement seems to start at sunset. This applies to nearly every project–from repair of fence posts, i.e., outdoor projects, to such indoor projects as replacing a fixture. A lesser man would not attempt any of these sorts of things in the dark. But my husband is obviously not of the “lesser man” variety.

So tonight was no different and round about sunset Chuck decided to install the new fixture we recently purchased, in the guest bathroom. The fixture in question was basically an impulse purchase from Costco (it cost something like $19.99 and it’s cute so we couldn’t pass it up).

I turned the power off to the bathroom in question. There was much swearing and stomping as Chuck searched for a working flashlight (because recall that it’s dark out now so there’s no ambient light to work by–again…see the lesser man reference above). Then the project commenced. Chuck uninstalled the existing fixture and attached the bracket for the new fixture. Then came the part in this party where he went to install the fixture to the bracket.

But oops….the fixture is centered over the medicine cabinet and directly to the left of the medicine cabinet is a wall. And oops, the fixture is longer than the space available. Chuck’s new plan was to remove the finial-type thingie at the end of the fixture on the wall side but I was having none of that.

So Chuck pulled the old fixture out of the trash and reinstalled it.

At this point I suggested boxing the fixture up and returning it to Costco. But noooooooooo. He was going to install it in Zoe’s bathroom now. And just so you know, he was going to do that originally but changed his mind after looking at the wiring in there or something, but now that it didn’t fit in the guest bathroom suddenly it was a good idea all over again.

So Zoe and I left to go shopping. It seemed like the right thing to do.

We returned home about an hour later and Chuck announced that the fixture had been installed. Great. I missed the cussing, stamping, and attendant drama that all home improvement projects involve. And I didn’t have to hold the flashlight, because by this time it was full dark outside.

Yes, the fixture was up, but for some unknown reason it wasn’t working.

Hmmmmmm.

I was puttering around putting my purchases away when I heard Chuck call Zoe into her bathroom. He had pulled the fixture off the wall and was checking all the wire connections and having her turn all the switches on. He had overhead light. He had heat lamp. He had fan. But the fixture–over the sink–still didn’t work.

It was a puzzlement I tell you.

Until I asked him if he used the switch next to the sink–the only that actually works the above the sink fixture. I flipped the switch. The light went on.

Angel music. Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Editor’s note: my husband is not actually a WASP, he’s a nice Irish Catholic boy, but that just wasn’t nearly as funny–to me at least.

My husband has a love/hate relationship with home repair. He’s chronicled it numerous times. You can feel free to search over there. I’ve come up with nothing but I know he’s written about it. OK, maybe he wrote about it in his old journal, but the search engine doesn’t seem to be working so just go read through all his old archives and you’ll find it.

Anyway, home repairs for Chuck typically involve approximately eight trips to the hardware store, much yelling of the ever endearing phrase, “fuckingpieceofshit” and other demonstrations of easy success and the enduring love for humankind that my husband freely emits.

So we can all just imagine his pleasure when two projects unwittingly fell to him today.

Project #1: I noticed that the spigot for the hose at my veggie garden is leaking. It won’t turn all the way off which is a) enormously wasteful of water and $$$$, and b) not good for my veggies. Plus, this leaky spigot caused a rupture in the new hose that I put out there just yesterday. So this morning I planned to head over to the hardware store for a new spigot.

As I was heading out the door to get a replacement spigot Chuck asked me if I could pick up a new spigot.

Great minds thinking alike–I just love that.

I proceeded to show him the DIY page I had just printed out with instructions and said that was exactly what I was off to purchase.

So I get to the hardware store and head over to the hose parts aisle. Seems to me that a spigot would be in that general area because I’ve seen those things you put on the spigot to make it branch to two spigots, and other sort of hose/spigot/outside related stuff.

I found someone to help me. While he was not nearly as helpful as a previous experience I had, he was kind enough to inform me that what I wanted was a hose bib, and not a spigot; and he proceeded to show me to the hose bibs.

Well, since nothing is actually easy, it seems that there are two types of hose bibs–ones that require a coupler, and ones that fit directly onto the pipe. I was fairly certain I didn’t need the kind with the coupler, so we proceeded. Then it turns out that they are either 1/2″ or 3/4″. I was not sure which size I needed so I took one of each, grabbed a pipe wrench and came back home.

When I returned with my booty Chuck took the parts and went out to repair the hose bib. Now, I was going to do it. I’m sure I’m fully capable of having done so, I mean, basically it’s turning off the water, screwing the old one off, cleaning it up a bit, putting on some Teflon tape, and screwing a new one on.

But you know how much easier it is when you don’t have to actually do it yourself. When someone volunteers to do it for you. And volunteers graciously.

Yes, you hear a small chorus of angel music. Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Well, angel music is great and all but Chuck was doing it. And nothing really goes that smoothly usually (though I continue to have faith that it will).

Well, today was the day when it all worked out. Because not five minutes after Chuck left to start said repair, he returned into the house having completed said repair. And not one single fuckingpieceofshit was uttered.

Cue the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of angel music. Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

(Oh, and it turns out I was on the money about not needing the whole coupler thingy.)

Project #2. Several hours later I remembered that I meant to pick up a replacement towel rack for the guest bedroom. Zoe liked to hang from the old one, so not surprisingly, it fell off the wall.

Chuck’s dad is coming tomorrow to stay and I thought it might be nice for him to be able to actually hang his towel up.

(Of course, why I didn’t remember this and pick it up this morning is another story.)

So back to the hardware store I went. I returned the extra hose bib from earlier and picked up a lovely towel rack. Again, I was all set to install it when Chuck offered.

Laaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Well, about 25 minutes or so after he started a new towel rack graces our lovely guest bathroom. Not one cuss word or ill vibe issued.

Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Hmmmm…he’s having so much success I wonder if it’s time for me to ask him to build me that addition I’ve been wanting.

(Oh, and since this entry is all about him, no doubt it is considered the “perfect entry”.)

After shoe stores (which should go without mentioning frankly) probably my two favorite kinds of stores are hardware and office supply stores.

Big “warehouse-type” hardware stores are OK, but it’s the mom and pop ones that I really love. You don’t see that kind of store much these days (at least not in Los Angeles), alas. When I was little I used to go to the hardware store with my dad. There were all sorts of gadgets and doo dads that fascinated me. I didn’t know what half the stuff was but I loved it.

Then there are office supply stores. I know what all the stuff is, and it’s stuff I love to have. Not big things like desks, chairs, or computer stuff. No, it’s the little stuff. It’s the pens, pencils, fancy paper clips, post-its, and bins of things. I love bins of things.

Tonight Chuck and I stopped at Staples so I could pick up a calendar. Of course I perused the pen aisle and picked up some groovy lavendar mechanical pencils, because, really, who doesn’t need those? I also got some erasers for Zoe.

We then proceeded to the checkout. But, on the way to the checkout there was a bin the I totally missed. A bin filled with things so fabulous, that when Chuck called my attention to its contents, I could not believe I did not hear the angel music as I walked past it. I approached the bin and heard it.

Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Because, lo, what was this bin filled with? MINI SHARPIES. Yes, the magical, mystical marker of markers has gotten better.

I know, you’re saying to yourself that this is not possible. But ha, it is. Because not only are they MINI SHARPIES, but they are mini Sharpies in fabulous fashion colors. And they have little key chain attachments on them. How fabulous is that?

They are so fabulous I had to have four:

See how compact they are compared to a regular Sharpie?

No need to thank me, after all, I didn’t invent them,

It seems there are two kinds of people in the world: those who will return things and those that will not. OK, maybe there are three, the third being the kind that will return things sometimes, but only the most obviously simple things one can return.

I am a person who will return things. All kinds of things.

I recently bought an ever so cute pair of brown suede pumps at Ann Taylor. They were the perfect shoe. I was so excited with the find of the shoes, I had to immediately purchase an entire new outfit to go with them. I was ready for supreme cuteness at work the next day: new outfit, and faboo new shoes.

And I was fabulous. Until about 2:30 in the afternoon, when the shoes were hurting so badly I was alternately wincing and cursing with each and every step I had to take. The signs had, of course, started earlier in the day, but I pressed on. Until 2:30 when I was two steps past miserable. So miserable in fact, that I put on the emergency black pumps I keep at my desk and wore them for the rest of the afternoon. With the supremely cute outfit put together around the brown suede shoes. The Manolo will tell you, I had to have been one miserable puppy with some majorly barking dogs to have committed that fashion faux pas.

At about 5:15 I tried the shoes again. Oh.My.God. It was horrible. I wanted to die.

So I picked up the phone and called Ann Taylor. I explained that I had purchased the shoes the day before…the seemingly perfect shoes. I explained that these shoes could be used to torture prisoners of war, were it not against the Geneva Convention. The lovely saleswoman told me to bring them back (what I was angling for with the phone call in the first place). I reminded her that I had worn these instruments of pain for most of the day. No problem she assured me.

I then immediately went online to Zappos, found a more than suitable replacement, and we heard angel music. Laaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

I returned the shoes the very next day. For full credit to my charge card.

Well, just last Saturday, a similar thing happened to a friend of mine. She bought a divinely adorable pair of black wedge sandals with a lovely Roman ankle strap at the Stephane Kilian store in Beverly Hills.

She wore the shoes for a couple of hours on Saturday, but alas, they were so painful that she had to go home and change her shoes.

My friend was beside herself. The shoes were expensive and she could not wear them. What was she to do?

She shared her dilemma with me on Monday morning. I told her to return them. She knew of my situation with the shoes from Ann Taylor. But she said this was different. She bought the shoes from a little boutique. They would never take them back.

I assured her they would.

“No, no, no” she said.

I offered to phone the shop, explain the situation and confirm that the shoes could be returned.

“No, no, no” she said.

OK

She decided to take the shoes to the shoemaker next door and see if he could do something with the soles. From the soles you could (obviously) tell that the shoes had been worn, but just barely. She was going to see if the shoemaker could do something to spiff them up and then she’d think about returning them.

I assured her this was not necessary but she did anyway.

I’ll just point out now that you cannot make a silk purse of out a sow’s ear and the shoes were not really improved by the dear cobbler.

After two days of fretting, she finally agreed to let me call the store.

Well….we all know where this is going. Yes. I spoke with the manager. Of course the shoes could be returned. Please bring them back at your earliest convenience.

Ha.

Turns out, they had sold her the wrong sized shoes. Stepane Kilian shoes are sized in French. The box had said 8 1/2 for the size. The shoes, however, said 9–the size my friend wears.

It seems that somehow, she’d been sold a very expensive pair of cute shoes in the wrong size. Because that 9 was, in fact a 6 (French size)–and 8 1/2 (American size).

They did not have any more of the cute sandals in her size, but she got a different pair of equally cute shoes. This time in her size.

And then she heard angel music.

Laaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

There’s a new man in my life.

He makes everything hot, moist, and juicy. He’s so fabulous that, not only does my husband love him too, but my husband uses him–almost every single day. Sometimes twice a day.

Who is this incredible man you ask? A man so fabulous that my husband not only adores him, but finds him preferable to….me?

Why do we love George so much? Because we recently purchased (OK, the usual angel music here…laaaaaaaaaaaa…)

Yup, a George Forman Grill. Now all time will be divided into BGFG (the sad time before the George Forman Grill) and nirvana.

I’m here to say, Oh.My.God. This thing is fabulous. I’m serious. Dinner is no longer reservations. We cook around here. Every single night. Chuck cooks dinner. More often than I do. Chuck reads recipes. He measures, stirs, slices, dices, and whatnot. All so he can cook it on the thing of beauty that is our George Forman Grill. This is a man who, BGFG, cooked maybe five dinners in our entire relationship–13 or so years. And each of those five dinners was Hamburger Helper.

Now salmon, chicken breasts, turkey burgers, steaks, whatever. Anything that can be grilled he cooks.

And damn that food is good. We were never lovers of chicken breast before (too dry). Now we eat it like four nights a week. I’m telling you, anything you wouldn’t eat before because it tended to dry out, cook it on a George Forman Grill and you’ll never look back. And fast, oh man, from ingredients to dinner in less than 30 minutes!

If you don’t have one run, now, to the nearest store that sells them. Get the kind with the removable grill pans. Your life will never be the same again.

Sing angel music to yourself as you click on the image to make it larger. Laaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Go me! My M1!