Hammering Away at the Bonds of Love

The way I had it figured, the garish bedroom carpet was the first thing to go.

A former inhabitant of my home had installed it because, he said--his eyes glinting--it was green, the color of money.

Money for nothing. I wanted to rip those threads out with my bare hands. But my girlfriend, light of my 40-something life and bane of my mental health, had other ideas.

Hands on hips, her tone harsh, she steadfastly refused to let me touch that carpet. It was plush and kept her footsies cozy during the winter months. Who cared if there was a gorgeous hardwood floor lurking right there underneath? The carpet stayed.

We were, we both agreed, at a home-improvement impasse.

*

It certainly was not our first. Over the last few months, Light of My Life and I have been fixing up our 1930s-era, three-bedroom nest, finally patching those nasty wall-length cracks caused by the 1994 earthquake (Hey, I just bought the place two years ago--don’t rush me) and repainting each of the nine rooms a different color.

That’s nine good reasons to have a doozy of a fixer-upper fight. In the car. At the paint and hardware store. Walking on the street. Even in our favorite Chinese restaurant.

Here’s the way they go:

“You idiot, you don’t have a clue about what you’re doing.”

“Hey, I used to be a professional painter.”

“Liar. You never painted before in your life.”

“So big deal. I’m still in charge on this project site, lady friend.”

“If you’d just follow my instructions, everything would work out perfectly.”

In the last few months I have not, I’ll admit, followed her instructions.

And so there we are, digging in our heels, each refusing to yield on some small detail of home decor that, at the time, seems so God-awfully important. Those counselors certainly aren’t wrong when they say that home renovation projects are among the most stressful for a couple.

We’ve all read about those twosomes who dropped the hammer, so to speak--who improved their home but watched their relationship crash in the process.

In fact, most of our friends thought we were insane.

“Hire a painter,” they warned. “It’s just not worth it.”

But we smugly agreed we could save big bucks by doing things the right way. Then the fights started.

For Light of My Life and me, our repair work has taught us a few crucial things about each other. We knew we had similar interests; we travel well together and like to relax on weekends doing the same kinds of things.

But here’s what bugs me about her: She insists on seeing the inherent value in things, instead of their specific worth to her. Take the carpet. While in good condition, it was wrong for us. We both knew it would clash with the color we had chosen for the room. Still, she insisted on keeping it. Somebody, somewhere would find value in that carpet, which meant, of course, that it had value to her.

It reminds me of a garage-cleaning exercise a few years ago during which we literally had a tug-of-war over stuff I considered hopeless junk and she wanted to keep around. Light of My Life insists she’s not a pack rat (and I have enough of my own little idiosyncrasies to know that you have to overlook some things in order to make a relationship work). That way, when I’m past my prime, she’ll keep me around longer than I deserve, too.

Still, nothing gets thrown away without her inspection.

And here’s what drives her crazy about your trustworthy narrator: I am the combined Moe, Larry and Curly version of the urban homeowner. I’m the kind of guy who insists on forcing in screws until they’re stripped.

I’m the ham-handed clod who, if something doesn’t work right the first time, will exert enough force on the second go-round as to break, bend or render worthless whatever I happen to be working on. But not before some serious grunting, ranting and swearing, a man who’s such a joy to be around after a hard week at the office.

Light of My Life writes off these little tirades to what she calls my passionate approach to life. But along with passion comes patience, she says. Me and my snap temper are her crosses to bear.

As long as I do things her way.

Take those windows in the master bedroom. I was trying to muscle out the old caulking that must have been there since the Great Depression. Despite her warnings, I hacked away with a razor, cracking five windows in the process.

The bill: nearly $300. So much for saving money by doing the work myself.

The worst fights, though, are the public ones. Like that humdinger in the paint store when she, at the last minute, kept changing her mind about our chosen color. I, of course, handled myself like a true caveman--gritting my teeth, lobbing insults, while the paint man stood there and rolled his eyes.

“Never,” I told him, “embark on a home project with a woman.”

“And never,” she rejoined, “do anything with a fool.”

The fighting has, believe it or not, strengthened our relationship. It has allowed us to take a step back and laugh at ourselves. Recently, the day after we celebrated her birthday with a romantic dinner, we were back at our home improvement nightmare. As we scraped paint, we talked in mock somber tones about the things we would do when we broke up--whom we would date, who would get the house.

Later, recalling the moment, we laughed out loud, vowing that would be our last fight.

Again.

*

So, about that carpet? I finally got the go-ahead to rip it up, and after a new coat of paint, she admitted that I’d been right, that the floor looked great after all.

Then disaster struck again: My 18-year-old cat can no longer leap up on the bed without the spring from the carpet, forcing me to consider building her a bed ladder.

“See,” Light of My Life said. “If you’d only followed my instructions.”