I cannot blame him for not wanting to work on the house when he's been demolishing and rebuilding houses all day, but dammit! As mentioned in my previous rant, as soon as I have the house marginally tidied he finds something in urgent need of fixing. And instead of finishing a project -- reinstalling the kitchen ceiling molding that I have been whining about for a year and a half, for instance -- he starts another.
Last week I was bedecking the window boxes and he decided to fix the outside of the front door, a project that has actually deteriorated as the days passed. For some reason the normally welcoming lantern is now hanging mournfully from its wires, drooping over a handsome pot of holly.
Then I set about rearranging the hall table, a bombe chest of some age topped by an even older mahogany mirror. I'm happy with the silver bowl of greens, the clippings of pine and fir added to straight limbed bamboo that is the perpetual adornment, and the addition of glittery birds perched among the branches.
This was all easy to do -- and virtually free -- and the result is dramatic and borderline tacky and so forth, which is how I like things.
Then I decked myself out and went off to a cocktail party, leaving a note about being home for dinner and the oven is set to go on automatically so Do Not Panic if you hear the whoosh of it starting and yank the plug from the wall as you are prone to doing since you do not know how to turn it off.
And I got home, as promised at 7:30 or near enough, and not at all ploughed since the hosts were abstemious with the tequila in the margaritas and there my boy was, on a ladder, framed in the glass door panel, making Do Not Open the door quickly signals and my mind plummeted.
"Wow," he said as he let me in, indicating the door frame which was no longer trimmed out. "You could stick your fingers right through the wall!" This said as if the hole had not been there for the 29-years we've lived in this house -- if not the near hundred years since it was built.
He was waving about a can of this foam that billows like an episode of I Love Lucy to insulate your crevasses with vile yellow humps. Theoretically, once pumped into your holes and gaps, it is be covered (or recovered) with molding. Sadly -- remember that kitchen molding? -- in this house it tends to sit for years wherever it is pumped, flibbering at one (me) like an egregious attack of piles.
And there is no way in hell that the molding will be reinstalled before the holidays because he is leaving the day after tomorrow for Austin, where he is retrieving baby and her dog and various accoutrements and U-Hauling her and them home.
She says I should get a hammer, smack it all back together, and let him complain.
This I am sorely tempted to do.