An epic odyssey of home improvement

I am a simple, satisfied gal. I don't long for plush carpets, sky lights or sink-in tubs. All I ask is an unhindered view of my dusty television and unblocked access to the refrigerator. My definition of a clean house is my bed mostly made and that at least 10% of my kitchen counter-space is free of dirty dishes. And that number is actually compromise-able.

These tendencies make me a pretty sizable anchor (I'm still battling my winter-weight gain) for a husband who enjoys the occasional home-improvement project. Our attic has been the equivalent of Penelope's tapestry for the last two decades. Just as Odysseus's wife looked to be making progress on her little rug, she'd go and tear out all the threads and begin again. Insulation in (after a LOT of complaining:  "My arms are itchy! How much longer? This is stupid...I'll just wear layers!)...dry wall up (after a LOT of complaining: "This is too heavy! I can't hold it! I can't hold it! Oops...sorry.)...Brad suddenly decided spray foam insulation is the way to go. "Great," I said encouragingly, watching Two Broke Girls. "Wait! What? Did you just say we had to take DOWN all that dry wall and take OUT all that insulation? No way, buddy!"

So we called up our new friend, Warren, and I led him on a fun tour of our house to get an estimate. Brad, who was working at the time, later realized that this was a colossal mistake on his part. "Warren," I wheedled, "do you really think this is necessary?" We examined the attic and I helpfully held the measuring tape when asked. "Hold it to the post," Warren instructed, striding to the opposite side of the room. He looked back. "More to the middle," he gestured. I made an adjustment while Warren regarded me silently. He returned to me and pointed to the area he needed. I smiled. "Warren," I asked sweetly, "Are you married?" "Uh-huh." Warren was a man of few words. And none of those words were screaming at me that I was too inept to hold a measuring tape properly. Warren was a treasure. "Do you really think that we should re-insulate the ceiling and walls," I asked, holding back what could have been perceived as real tears. "That does seem to be a lot of work," Warren agreed.

When I later reported Warren's findings to Brad along with my intent to leave him for another man, my husband's response was to immediately set up another estimate so he could meet with Warren personally. And the next thing I knew, it was time to unravel the tapestry.

Suddenly, I was crouched outside a cubby hole in the attic (I didn't even know we HAD a cubby hole in the attic), waiting for Brad to hand me out bags of debris that had been there since the house had first been built in the mid-1800s. Occasionally, I'd stick my head in this small, dark enclosure to see how Brad was faring but this was an exercise in futility because it was like looking into a sand-filled snowglobe. I could only guess my husband's whereabouts by the sound of his incessant hacking. Meanwhile, I was suffering without measure, sitting on bare boards for three and a half hours, waiting for bag after bag to get stuffed through the hole to me. To alleviate these tortuous conditions, I would stand once in a while to peer longingly out the window (to pretend it was a television). "Look," I exclaimed once through my dirt-clogged respirator, "a pileated woodpecker!" I watched his compulsive search for sustenance, rapidly hitting his head against the wood, again and again. I nodded. It was an apt analogy. I sighed and sat back down, resisting the urge to nail a board over the cubby hole and call it a day. When I confessed this compulsion to Brad, he reassured me that he had never been concerned. "You don't know how to hold a measuring tape properly. What makes you think that you could successfully handle a hammer and nails?" Just give me a chance.