Friday, October 12, 2012
Kitchen Remodel: Backsplash Installation
“I got the tiles for the kitchen backsplash,” I told Mr. Wonderful.
“Good,” he said while shaving in the bathroom.
“I got the grout for the tiles.”
“I called the handyman to install it.”
“No way!” he said nicking his chin.
Since buying The House my husband had turned into a Do-It-Yourself maniac. It started small with him installing handles on the closet doors the week we moved in and grew with each DIY success until now he wanted to single-handedly expand the kitchen to feed 80, add a helicopter landing pad and build a second Griffith Observatory on our roof. All while working a full time job. It was crazy. He was crazy. He was driving me crazy.
Now he spent hours at hardware stores buying materials. He spent days on the internet researching DIY projects. He spent weeks avoiding local handymen.
One of our neighbors, James, was a certified electrician. When we first trimmed our palm trees, James thanked us by handing out his business card,
“If you need any electrical repairs, call me,” he said with a wave.
Instead of seeing this as the friendly gesture it was, Mr. Wonderful viewed it as a challenge to his masculine virility. I saw his chin jut out in defiance and could hear his brain screaming: Fix our electrical system? Over my dead body!
So I said goodbye to a weekend with Mr. Wonderful. And for the next 60 hours I worked, I went to dinner with my girlfriends, I watched every movie at Laemmle’s Polish Film Festival just to avoid being in his hair while he toiled on the remodel. While I gallivanted around Los Angeles, he prepped the walls, applied the glue and slapped the tile suckers to it.
Then he rested for two weeks. After which I, again, became a weekend widow while he spent another weekend applying the grout. This time I worked overtime at the office, I invited myself to dinner with my girlfriends and their boyfriends, I caught Laemmle’s entire Icelandic Film Fest. I’d never seen so much ice on film. During (another) harsh ice film scene I got a text message from Mr. Wonderful.
I returned to the house with coffee, sushi and ice cream. I entered the kitchen and beheld a finished backsplash and a dirty spouse.
"It’s beautiful,” I gasped. He ran his grout-encrusted hands through his hair. He was beautiful. There was nothing but masculine, virile perfection about him and his work.
So I decided: If he really wanted to be a DIY maniac… I’d let him.