Home Improvement

Tonight found me in the aisles of the local home improvement store. I went in search of bee-killing spray, paint for my living room, and hair-clog removing chemicals. While wandering around with glassy eyes and sticky contact lenses, I remembered my drippy faucets (two different bathrooms) and asked a man in the plumbing section, "Excuse me, do you know about faucets?"

He straightened up and said, "Uh, no, not really."

I said, "Oh. Well, I figured that you had to know since you are a man." Was that insulting? Sexist? I don't know, but he did lead me to the section where I would buy the replacement part, if only I knew exactly which replacement part it needed. So, he did know. He was just holding out on me. Turns out, though, that I need to disassemble the faucet to find the faulty part before I can replace it. Like that's going to be a priority.

I walked miles back and forth, looking for these little pegs that hold shelves up in my five-by-six foot shelving unit. The boys knocked a shelf down and the peg went flying out, so now the shelf balances on three pegs, rather than four, which is simply unacceptable.

Even more unacceptable is the fact that the little replacement peg-thing-a-ma-jigs are not in stock at the home improvement store. I asked the man in Lighting about them and he made a phone call and then directed me to Kitchen Cabinets, where I found two young men building a whole set of cabinets in a pretend kitchen for the imaginary family who'll be frying up invisible bacon and putting away invisible dishes overnight. One of them with a scarred-up face said, "Oh, I have my own stash," and he disappeared and reappeared with a handful of various pegs. He said, "Here, put these in your pocket and take them home and try them out." I was ever grateful and only felt a teeny-tiny bit like I'd just completed a drug transaction. I kept fingering the goods in my pocket as I finished shopping.

The other night, the boys' shelf had fallen down again. I keep their shorts and shirts neatly folded and piled on these shelves, rather than in a dresser because I am occasionally a frugal type and we are making do with what we have rather than buying stuff that isn't absolutely necessary. My husband thinks it's unconscionable that the boys don't have a dresser, but if they have shelves, what's the difference? At least for now, anyway. Well, the missing peg led to the unstable shelf, which collapsed, leaving all the clothes in a big jumble. This happened two or three times in as many days, so this particular night, as the boys were stretched out in bed, I went in to say good-night and found the mound of formerly-folded clothes and said in a fit of frustration, "I bet this doesn't happen at ___________'s house!"

And TwinBoyA said, "No, because they have a walk-in closet." (Of course they do. They have a view, too, and a hot tub outside of their French doors. Their family home is being remodeled to the tune of $200,000. Their addition costs more than my entire home.)

Well, aren't I just the worst parent possible? Pardon me for not providing you with a walk-in closet!

I have to say, I do hate that I cannot provide everything for my kids--I mean everything. I wish they had grandparents living across the block and their own rooms. I wish we took vacations by airplane every year and furthermore, I wish we had a vacation home by the ocean. I wish I could purchase their clothes without making sure they have a "clearance" sticker on the price tag. I wish we had a brand new vehicle big enough so one of the kids didn't have to sit between my husband and me in the front seat. I wish we had college funds for them and I wish they could go to summer camp and have a season's pass to Wild Waves. I wish they each had their own walk-in closet and their own bathroom and their own balcony and--why not?--their own butler who could do their homework for them before driving them to school in their own SUVs.

But, that's not how things work here in our humble home. And I hope they don't resent it and compare their lives and find our family lacking. At least here they are free to dig a creek in the back yard and to eat popsicles in their dresser-free bedroom. And they have me to yell at them, not a nanny who makes $10 an hour.

Anyway, back at the home improvement store, the paint guy mixed me some eggshell paint, Caramel Honey, which sounds like a cross between an adult film actress and dip for Granny Smith apples. I may or may not paint while my husband is away for a week. I actually like painting once I get started. It's the getting started part that I hate--the cleaning the walls and the taping.

I lost track of time in the home improvement store, dreaming of shelving units and brand new carpet and lighting--oh my, the lighting. My dad was a handy guy and instilled in me the belief--okay, the delusion--that I could do anything at all if I could read. Then I married a man whose idea of home maintenance is to ask a friend to "help" him. Then he holds the hammer and cracks jokes while his friend does all the work. That in itself is a skill, but it won't get me any track-lighting installed.