Water, Water Everywhere

And nary a moment to think. How would my husband handle my latest remodeling disaster?

Marsha Marks

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"Marsha," my husband, Tom, said, "you've ruined every place we've ever lived, and I'm tired of it."

"I think 'ruin' is a bit strong," I said.

"You don't call 72 nail holes in three walls of our first apartment ruining?"

"No, I call it trying to hang 14 large pictures."

"It took me four hours to patch all the holes."

"That's what security deposits are for."

"I've never forfeited a security deposit," Tom said. Was he trying to impress me?

"Really?" I said, "That's odd. I've never gotten one back."

Tom sighed. "And the second place we lived?" he said. "Where you ruined the garage?"

I tried to explain that I didn't ruin it; I tried to remodel it. But Tom wouldn't listen.

I've always had a secret desire to be a carpenter. I was just trying out my craft. Never mind we had to pay a professional carpenter $700 to fix my "remodeling" job.

"I had asked you specifically not to ruin that place," Tom said.

"That's why I stayed in the garage!" I explained. "You specifically said, 'Don't ruin this home.' You didn't say I couldn't work in the garage."

Tom continued his diatribe: "It wouldn't be so bad, except we've only been in this new condo for a day and you're already starting to ruin it."

I cringed as I thought about the bedroom closet. Tom had tried to hang his coat and the entire rack fell to the floor—with all his shirts and suits.

"I was just trying out my new electric tools," I said. "I wanted to reorganize the shelves and racks."

"And the kitchen?" he asked, opening the pantry door and pointing to the shelf where my new SawsAll 850 Power Plus had gotten away from me. It looked like a shark took a bite out of it.

"See this shelf?" Tom said, more irritated now that we were both looking at the damage. "It's not fixable."

"It was the SawsAll," I said. "I couldn't hold onto it." And then, trying to put it in perspective, I pointed out, "It says 'saws all,' it doesn't say, 'saws pretty.'"

Tom took a deep breath. "Marsha, I'm tired of this. We're now in the nicest place we've ever lived, and I don't want you to ruin it—anymore. I'm telling you right now, you're not a carpenter.

And I don't want you to practice becoming one—not on our home, not our garage, not our closets, not our kitchen, not even our pantries. I don't want you to use power tools. I don't want you to remodel. I don't even want you to walk through the Sears tool department without me there. Do you understand?"

I nodded my agreement and then promised I would not remodel the condo anymore.

Uh oh. Trouble

The next day, after Tom went to work, the builders showed up to do the final inspection. Since they hadn't checked the whirlpool in the master bathroom, they asked me to turn on the water and fill the tub so they could check to make sure the jets worked properly.

So I went upstairs, turned on the water, and sat by the tub to make sure it didn't overflow. It seemed to be taking forever.

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2004, Spring

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