My faucet is doing a pour job

It was a Sunday morning.

Early.

Rattle. Rattle. Tap. Tap. Pound. Pound. Wiggle Wiggle. Mutter. Mutter. Muffled curse.

I squinted at the clock.

6:50.

A.M.

Tantrum-kicking the blankets entangling my legs off, I stormed into the next room.

"What are you doing?" I croaked, my voice raspy with repressed rage and furious fatigue. 

Clad in his boxers, my husband was sawing away at the drywall inside our tall kitchen closet. Tools littered the floor. The interior items in the closet were strewn all OVER.

"You know how every time you turn on the shower, you pull up the little knob and ALSO yank out the entire faucet?" he began..."Well, I'm replacing it with a sturdier one."

I think this was my cue to say "Thank you," but I decided to let it slide in the face of such early-morning accusatory aggression.  I hesitated, wondering what my role was here. "Since you're just standing there anyway, can you get me a ruler?" Brad asked, somewhat peevishly in my opinion. "Could I suggest something more in means of a shirt or, dare I suggest, pants?" I spat back. Ask me for a ruler in my classroom and BOOM! I'd have it for you, lickety-split. At home, however, I do not find myself in frequent need of a measurement tool. I know EXACTLY how long the important things in my life are. 

For some reason, the only ruler that I could unearth was a wobbly one. I handed it to my husband while simultaneously aiming the flashlight at the wrong area. Grasping the limp tool in his hand, he glared at me before flinging it over his shoulder where it flopped uselessly on the cluttered kitchen floor.  "Why do they even make those?" I asked, watching him snap a meter stick in half. "To wrap around cylindrical objects for diameter," he grunted, successfully cutting the drywall in a straight line. I eyed up the discarded ruler, "Huh," I said softly. He wrestled the drywall out. "Don't even think about it," he growled.

"Put your fingers here and hold the pipe in place," he told me next, ignoring my immature giggling as he entered the bathroom to mount the new fixture. "Come here and try it out," he called after a few minutes. "No," I told him, "I don't want to get wet." There was a long pause before I finally heard him jump in and turn on the water. "How's it doing?" I asked, now fully invested in this project. Wary, Brad answered cautiously, "Looks good," he summarized, weighing his words. "That's great!" I told him, "Maybe next time we'll work on the head." 

I snickered as I headed back to bed to bury myself under the covers. "You could have been a plumber," my husband hollered," You have such a potty mouth!"