The Way Things Are






2005-03-07, 10:49 a.m.

Ahhh, the weekend. There was productivity, there was fun, there was an argument with a genuine resolution, there was good food, and there was a silly movie.

First, the argument, since it goes first chronologically. My beloved DishWasher started spinning a disjointed yarn about how the sheetrock guy had a job that he'd done, and it had a sample of some kind of texture we could go look at, to see if we want this same kind of texture on our walls. Doesn't it sound like the sheetrock guy is working on a job, where he has applied the texture, and he would like us to venture to the work site to get a looksee at the texture? Hmmm?

So we drive, and we get to some peoples' house. A house with some lights on, most of them off, a tv glowing in the interior...definitely some people settled in for the night. It was about 8:00, and what can I say? This is the country, and we settle in for the night pretty early.

I asked DW "So this is a house where people live? We're going to somebody's house?" I'm wondering what the sheetrock guy was thinking - perhaps we were at the wrong address, because this is clearly not a job site. This is an occupied home.

DW, since he has such an excellent filter on his mouth replied "Haven't you been listening? I told you Curt had to call the owners to get permission for us to come out here and see the texture!"

I was stunned and said that I thought that meant Curt had called the owners WHO DIDN'T LIVE THERE YET to obtain permission for us to have a look at an unoccupied job site.

Well, Curt hadn't done a damn thing. The people come to the door, they don't know who we are, Curt hadn't called them in weeks, and we are clearly not welcome.

This is turning into a long story, isn't it?

We get in the car, and the "haven't you been listening?" barb is starting to settle in and sting. I'm stung. We drive for a few minutes, and I decided to be active-aggressive, not passive-aggressive, as is my wont.

I told DW that he might not even remember saying it, but that his remark really stung. He was stunned because he DIDN'T REMEMBER SAYING IT. See? Mouth runs, brain slipped out of gear. He had no idea he had said that, but I had to point out to him that he starts in the middle of a story, mid-thought, as though I was there in his brain with him, and gives a little clue at a time, and that I try my mightiest to keep up and cobble the story together to figure out what the fuck is going on, but in this case, I hadn't figured out via mindmail that we were going to somebody's occupied home to go in and look at their texture. Doesn't that sound dirty, in a way? Or like some big scam, a way of invading a home? We need to look at your texture?

Ahhh, it was resolved in short order, but I did manage to get it through his pointy head that he flings his barbs at me, barbs that clearly mean nothing to him since he doesn't even remember them, but they stick with me because, hey, no fair. I WAS fucking listening. To a rambly disjointed nonsensical story, I was.

OK, next is the productivity portion of our program. Saturday morning, we headed out to a neighboring small town that deals in architectural antiques, ie millions o' doorknobs, to look at fireplace mantels. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go with old farmhouse look and get an old salvaged mantel, or if I wanted to go with rustic cabin look and get a big honking piece of wood to use as a mantel. Turns out the arch antique place had plenty of each. We purchased a laaaahhhhrge slab of pecan - 5'7" long - which will be our mantel.

But it wasn't easy. We started with the salvaged pieces, and they were, eh, ok. Nothing begged me to take it home and make it mine. So once the owner figured out what we were looking for, he informed us that his business deals in old salvaged lumber, as well as quality pieces of wood, particularly mantel pieces. My goodness all the wood we looked at. Sounds dirty, doesn't it?

Mesquite, sycamore, oak, cypress. Chunks with bark, some without. Some very milled looking, some looking like it fell off a tree and landed there.

I got overwhelmed. DW was no help, as he has no opinion on anything aesthetic whatsoever. I said "screw it - we'll get Gary to build a shelf and we'll hang it over the goddamn fireplace." And my beloved DW, knowing my limits, swung into action a bit and started acting interested. Starting offering opinions.

Lo and behold, when the lumber guy uncovered a stack of pecan slabs, one in particular spoke to me, and we snapped it up (figuratively - it was heavy) and bought it, bagged it, loaded it in the truck, and took it home. There was much sanding of its beautifulness, and it is now ready to be tung oiled. I told DW, who had never heard of tung oil, to get plenty to drink because applying the tongue oil is hard work. lick lick lick. He was mildly amused.

Good food: Don cooked bbq chicken and brisket, which we ate at his house, on his dishes. I didn't have to cook or clean up.

Silly movie: Anchorman. Good for one watch, maybe a second one. A little like they were trying TOO hard to be funny, but the anchorman rumble with all its cameo appearances was worth the whole movie. Oh, and the Afternoon Delight music video at the end.

More productivity included the washing of many laundry items, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, dish-washing, church-going, car-driving, wood-sanding (how much fun is it to say to your husband "I can't stop stroking this wood"?), blah blah blah on and on and on on and on.

And two rolls in the hay.

Now the productivity is rolling over into the work day, and I must get back at it and HIT IT.

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