So while he sweated up in the attic, I sat in the air-conditioning and called out helpful things such as, “There ain’t nothin’ in Kentucky for me except a chest full of coal dust and being an old man before I’m forty” and “Doolittle’s done throwed me out” and because I was on a roll and couldn’t stop myself “Who’s that sow you got wallowin’ in your Jeep?”
I just do what I can to be supportive.
I’m not sure what happened at that point —maybe the excessive heat in the attic caused him to realize he was crazy to even consider trying to paint it himself. That’s why NASA has all those astronauts. What do you think they do when they’re not leaping around on the moon? But whether it was the heat or he just got distracted by something else, he dropped the idea, and I was so grateful.
Several years passed with no mention of radiant barrier paint, and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. In my opinion, it would be more fun to rent a shovel and hire myself out to dig a big hole than to spend money on our attic. Or maybe we could take a vacation and go out for a spin on a paddleboat, because what’s more relaxing than to pedal yourself around a large lake? Other than using a handy invention called a boat motor? But then I began to discuss changing up the living room and kitchen. Specifically, I wanted to get rid of the autumn-gold color we’d had on the wall for ten years and go with a soft gray, since that’s what everyone on Pinterest is doing and I’m a follower.
Perry was on board with my plan and then mentioned maybe it would be a good time to get insulation in our walls since we were going to paint and fix some existing cracks in the Sheetrock anyway. I vaguely accepted this because I was just happy he was agreeable to my plan to paint, plus I was secretly waiting for the moment to mention I also wanted built-in shelving installed in the living room. And maybe a new chandelier.
Then Gulley’s grandmother got sick and I drove to Bryan to help with Gulley’s kids while she and her mom tried to find an assisted-living facility for Nena. And it was while I was out of town and at the VERY LOUD community pool with the kids one afternoon that Perry called to report he’d had “a guy” out to the house to bid on insulating the walls and the attic.
I swear he’s like a dog with a bone.
So I listened as he excitedly explained what a HUGE difference this was going to make in our home and that all it involved was drilling “a couple of holes” in the walls so they could pump in the foam insulation.
I could tell this was one of those things he wasn’t going to let go of, so I agreed to the wall insulation but suggested that we wait on the attic since that was going to be a little more expensive and I’d rather put that money in a pile and burn it instead of spending it on our attic because, you know, what’s more fun to spend money on than insulating your attic?
Everything else in the world.
But here’s the thing about marriage. Sometimes there are breakdowns in communication. And sometimes you speak such different languages that you forget to ask important, clarifying questions. Questions like “How many holes are we talking about?”
Because while I naively envisioned that each wall would receive one small hole in a discreet location, what actually took place was a Sheetrock apocalypse.
The workmen came into our house with saws and drills and hoses while wearing masks. It was like the end of E.T. when the scientists realize E.T. is living in Elliott’s house and come barging in wearing space suits. I wanted to ride off on my bike and fly across the moon to escape while wearing a red hoodie. And I don’t really even like to wear red.
In my husband’s defense, the insulation salesguy hadn’t been completely up front with Perry either. And so we were completely unprepared for the mess and the dust and the hysteria and the tears. Of course, I was solely responsible for the hysteria and the tears. The workmen didn’t even cry one time as they decimated what used to be the walls of our home.
After Perry saw me breathing into a brown paper bag, he suggested that maybe I should get out of the house for the rest of the day. And I agreed because I was curled up in a corner singing, “Turn on your heartlight.”
The next two days were a blur of insulation and dust and walking back into the house to find my living room curtains tied in a knot to keep them off the floor. Curtains. Tied in a knot. Do you know what happens to curtains that have been tied in a knot? It’s not pretty. The whole situation was bleak. BLEAK. There was so much Sheetrock dust in my house that I believed there was no way it would ever be clean again, and we would all become permanently asthmatic and emerge from our home covered in dust like a scene out of some postapocalyptic movie where the people walk around like zombies as they survey their new reality.
Finally they finished pumping insulation, filled the silver-dollar-size holes all over each wall with some type of white foam that I think they use in hell, and left. My walls looked as if they’d contracted some type of the pox.
I’d spent that entire day at the pool with Caroline because, seriously, workmen act uneasy when a woman is crying on her dusty couch while they do their job. But about four o’clock that afternoon, Perry called me and asked where we kept the mop and the Swiffer broom.
And by the time I walked through the door an hour later, the house was completely put back together. The floors were swept and mopped. The curtains were untied. The furniture had been dusted.
As silly as this sounds, it was one of those moments in a marriage when I loved him more than ever. Not just because he cleaned the house, but because I realized he knows me well enough to know that I needed the house to be clean. That he knows me well enough to know that I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night until the house was put back together.
And there’s something about being known like that. It makes you feel loved. Because knowing to clean up all that dust is just the tip of the iceberg of things Perry has learned about me over the years. He loves me more because of some of them and in spite of the rest. I know you will find this shocking, but I am no picnic to live with some of the time.
(I always laugh when someone who just knows me from the blog says I must be so fun. Yes. I am a laugh a minute when I decide the baseboards look dirty and feel that my life will end if they aren’t cleaned immediately. It’s times like these when I’m sure Perry looks at me while I scrub furiously and thinks, Man, marrying her was a great decision.)
The holes remained in our walls for the next six months. For six months our house looked like it had been overrun by aggressive termites with anger issues. This was due to a combination of some painters who flaked out on us and having a hard time finding a Sheetrock repairman who wanted to deal with our mess. I could hardly blame them. In fact, I apologized profusely to every single one of them who walked through our door.
And frankly, the holes nearly sent me over the edge. I was okay for a while, but it finally got to the point where any sort of tip of the emotional scale would end with my crying and saying, “AND WE HAVE HOLES IN OUR WALLS.”
But finally, a few weeks before Christmas, we got everything patched and painted and repaired. We even got the built-ins installed, and the whole house was finally starting to look like a real place where grown-ups lived again. A place where people enjoy the finer things in life, like indoor plumbing and using utensils to eat a meal.
So you can imagine how I felt when, several nights later while eating dinner, Perry announced, “I think the next thing we need to do to the house is get the attic insulated.”
Why on earth? Why will this man, the man I love and adore, not rest until our home is completely impervious to outdoor temperatures? If I wanted to live in a refrigerator, then I could opt to move to Alaska and become an Eskimo.
(I’m not completely sure that example makes sense. But let’s go with it.)
And I tentatively, lovingly said, “You know, I just hate the thought of getting into all that and making a big mess now that the house is in such great shape.”
He responded, “It won’t make a mess.”
Yes. Tha
t’s what I heard about the wall-insulating process. That was a lie.
Perry went on to say, “It’s just a matter of taking everything down from the attic so they can pump out the old insulation and put in the new stuff.”
“I know. You’ve mentioned that before. Do you remember how much stuff we have stored in our attic? Do you recall that we have a saddle up there we’ve been keeping for a horse we’ve never owned or had ambitions to own?”
“Quit exaggerating. What’s taking up the most space up there is all your Christmas decorations. You have about forty-two different manger scenes.”
I replied, “Yes, because I love Jesus. Let’s not offend our Lord in an attempt to make me feel bad.”
And so we’ve been at an impasse. I’m not sure why we need our attic insulated when we still don’t have a farmhouse sink in the kitchen or plantation shutters on all our windows. That just doesn’t even make good design sense. Because you know what no one ever comes to your house and remarks?
“Your attic is so cool and refreshing.”
It’s not that I don’t appreciate Perry’s desire to turn our home into a Frigidaire; it’s just that my brain shuts down every time he mentions it.
The conversation came up again the other day, and Perry began with a sincere “So, seriously, I really think this is something we should do, but only if you agree that it’s worth the money.”
And I replied, “Give me your best sales pitch. Tell me why I’d want this instead of a new rug for the living room.” Because I like to pretend to be open minded.
He went into elaborate detail about the process. It will keep our attic temps at a cool ninety degrees even on the hottest summer days. (Which will make it so lovely for the “squirrels” that sometimes invade and snack on my Christmas decorations. I realize they probably aren’t squirrels, but it makes me feel better to think so, which confirms my theory that squirrels are just rats with a better public-relations department.) I halfheartedly mumbled an assent that I was okay with getting a few estimates and going from there.
Then a few days later, a couple of friends of mine came to visit from Nashville. They are both single and own their own homes. We got into a discussion about the terrible flood that hit Nashville a few years earlier, and one friend told us how the electricity went out, causing the sump pump that kept her house from flooding to shut off. The two of them had to drive around town in the midst of this terrible flood in search of a generator at Home Depot. And I am not even kidding when I say I felt like they were the bravest two women I’d ever met.
Because you know what I wouldn’t know how to find in case of a power outage? A generator. You know why? Because Perry would do that for me.
Marriage comes with its share of challenges and priorities that don’t always match up. But it can also come with the security of knowing you have someone who knows how to fix things and take care of all your maintenance needs. Sure, it can drive you crazy when you just want to hang a picture on the wall and he wants to measure it down to the nearest five-eighths of an inch. A number you don’t even believe to be valid because, seriously, an eighth of something? Who cares?
I tend to take for granted that I don’t have to worry about pesky details like attic insulation or anything involving the heating and cooling of our home. And talking to my Nashville friends made me realize that there are components to home ownership that I don’t think about because Perry is the one at our house who gets bids for a new sprinkler system and fertilizes our grass and figures out where the leak in the bathroom ceiling is coming from. That’s why he cares about foam insulation. He’s in charge of the practical, and I’m in charge of the pretty.
Our system may not work for everyone, but I’m a big fan of our distribution of responsibility. It allows me to focus on my love language, which comes in the form of a Pottery Barn catalog, while Perry walks the aisles at Home Depot and dreams of the day our attic will be sealed up tighter than the space shuttle.
CHAPTER 19
Because Innuendo Is the Sincerest Form of Flattery
WAY BACK WHEN I WAS IN COLLEGE, which is, sadly, many years ago now and not just five years ago like I tend to believe in my mind until I see an actual college student and realize DANG, I don’t look like that, do I? . . .
(Dear fifteen-year-old self, you should have worn more sunscreen all those years you were a lifeguard. Tan now, pay later.)
(And by pay later, I mean hundreds of dollars in expensive wrinkle creams with retinol.)
(Or just fifteen dollars in wrinkle creams in case Perry is reading this.)
Anyway, back when I was in college, there was a really sweet, nice boy who had a bit of a crush on me. And I wanted to like him. I knew he was the kind of guy I should want to date as opposed to all those guys I believed I could “fix.” So I gave my very best effort to be interested in him.
And then came the night he decided to surprise me with a trip out to the lake. He’d put together a picnic basket full of food. There were candles and roses. It was like a scene out of a Meg Ryan romantic comedy. (Or maybe Emma Stone, if you’re one of those college students who didn’t grow up on the wonder that is When Harry Met Sally.)
Everything was perfectly lovely, and I desperately tried to be in the moment and mentally will myself to fall in love with this incredibly romantic boy sitting next to me. But then he pulled out his guitar.
I felt something inside me start to freeze up. I had the distinct impression that I was about to find myself in a pickle. And before I knew what was happening, he began to serenade me with Keith Whitley’s “Tell Lorrie I Love Her” except he changed the lyrics to “Tell Mel I Love Her.”
(Oh my gosh. I am in a full blush and fighting the fetal position as I sit typing this in Starbucks at the mere memory of how awkward I felt.)
As he sat and sang that song, a million thoughts flashed through my mind. Chief of which was I want to squash him like a bug.
I know. I am a terrible person. You probably can’t believe you’re reading a book written by such a heartless, cold monster.
And sure, the argument could be made that it was the right gesture being made by the wrong boy. Maybe that was part of it. But a deeper part of me realized at that moment that I am not really a “my life is a romantic comedy” kind of girl as much as just a “comedy” girl. I don’t do well with overly romantic gestures, mainly because my mind begins to race furiously as I try to figure out if I’m supposed to cry or smile, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my arms, and suddenly my teeth feel enormous.
I realize this may put me in the minority of women. Maybe most women love nothing more than a sappy romantic gesture involving changing the lyrics to a classic country song, but I am not one of them. I prefer my romance with a dash of practicality. Just a nice “You’re the best wife ever” or “I’ll drive Caroline to soccer practice tonight” works for me.
Hollywood doesn’t really cater to women like me who don’t fit the life-is-a-romantic-fairy-tale mold. But maybe we’d all be better off if we didn’t get so caught up in what movies tell us is real love. In a movie, true love happens in about ten minutes after a montage of a couple throwing leaves at each other and chasing each other around a park while a Harry Connick Jr. song plays in the background, and men regularly say things like, “You complete me” or “My life was a vast wasteland of emptiness until I saw your beautiful smile across the room.”
In romance novels and romantic movies, men always know exactly what to say, and it’s never “I accidentally clogged the toilet again.” They care about their wife’s feelings and brush her hair gently out of her eyes as they listen to her, and they know just when to embrace her in a tender hug. And then we expect our husbands or boyfriends to do that same thing and, God love them, there’s a good chance they grew up with brothers, and the way they learned to say, “I love you” was to let one rip under the covers and then trap their little brother in there. It’s just not always in their emotional makeup to have the right re
sponse or say the right thing. How else do you explain all the times a man has said, “Is that what you’re wearing?”
A woman watching this scenario knows he should abort immediately: MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN! But most men will continue to dig themselves deeper and deeper into the hole as they try to explain what they meant, when all they need to say is, “I just meant that you look so beautiful, it won’t be fair to the other women at the party.”
I guess my point is that I didn’t go into marriage with any overly romantic notions or expectations. I don’t need candlelight dinners or serenades under the moon or roses delivered on a regular basis. Truth be told, I’m more of a Gerbera daisy kind of girl.
But I’m going to bring up something that might change your life forever, even though it’s about to make me feel a little uncomfortable. I think it needs to be addressed because, according to the extensive scientific research I’ve done, it’s an epidemic. Assuming that you believe drinking wine and laughing with your girlfriends counts as extensive scientific research. Maybe if we just get this phenomenon out there, we’ll all feel a little bit better knowing we aren’t alone.
Here’s the thing. Men have an innate ability to create sexual innuendo out of anything. ANYTHING. Like when I reread the above paragraph, all I can hear is Perry’s voice saying, “Oh, yeah. I’ll bring something up,” or “Yep, I’d definitely feel better if I got this phenomenon out there.” It’s like a part of their brains got stuck around the time they were thirteen years old and they’ve never recovered.
The worst part is that I know now when I’ve just said something that’s about to get turned into an invitation to take it to the bedroom or, as Adam and Christina call it on Parenthood, “Funky Town.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve innocently asked Perry if he brought any meat home from the ranch and immediately realize I’ve just made a tactical error. And heaven forbid I ask him if he can get some sausage out of the freezer for me. And you don’t even want to know what he said when I brought two large jugs home to put on our bookshelves.
The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life Page 14
