The colors in our nursery are pink and green. I didn’t have much say in that. I would have preferred orange and black, like the Massillon Tigers, my high school mascot.
We started with a neutral gray paint on the walls. Again, not much say on my behalf. My wife decided shortly after she moved in a couple of years ago that she would repaint every room in our house. There really wasn’t anything wrong with the paint, she just had to put her “mark” on it. It is kind of like a man. There’s nothing wrong with us, but they have to mold us the way they want us.
This painting exercise starts with her asking whether I like certain colors for particular rooms. For example, “Do you like aqua or yellow for the bathroom?” I would inevitably reply, “Whatever you want, hon. I really don’t care.”
Women don't like this kind of answer.
“You SHOULD care. I NEED your opinion. I need you to weigh in on things. You should care about how our house looks.”
So, I weighed in on the next room. “What color do you like for the bedroom? I’m thinking a light blue. What would you like?” she asked.
“Brooke, I think it would really be cool to have a dark red in the bedroom.”
Silence.
“I think we will go with the light blue.”
Women don’t really want your opinion. They want you to pretend you care and then agree with what they decide.
The truth is, I could care less what color the damn paint is. Men just want functional and practical. They don’t care about the beauty of a room. Women don't care about practicality, they care about how things look. My wife has been on my case since day one about the big wrap-around couch I have in my house. The fact that both of us, our two dogs and our coming bundle of joy can ALL comfortably lie on the couch without touching each other means absolutely nothing to her.
I once had a nine-drawer dresser. It was great for all my clothes. It was easy to fit things in. When Brooke moved in, she decided it was too big for our bedroom. She made me switch to a six-drawer dresser in the guest room. A few months later, she decided that was too big and talked me into a new bedroom set. But the dresser she picked out for me had only three drawers. It looks good in the room, but it is NOT functional. My clothes are stuffed into the drawers like me stuffed into a suit I wore 40 pounds ago. There is no room for give.
So anyway, back to our nursery. When it comes time to put things together and hang things, I am in trouble. I am NOT a handyman. Picture Seinfeld’s Kramer with a hammer. I was a straight A and B student until I hit 7th-grade Industrial Arts class. My inability to put a 2-by-4 in a vice and saw a straight line landed me my first C. Yes, my valedictorian status was ruined by a damn piece of wood.
The teacher was an a-hole, too. Why are all Industrial-Arts teachers Hitlers with toolbelts? They all have the paddles with holes drilled through them and they walk around like they are Clint Eastwood looking for someone to “make their day.” I signed up for Industrial Arts in ninth grade too, but after a couple of weeks with more crooked saw cuts and a bloody-red ass from run-ins with the teacher’s two-inch thick “Board of Education,” I got smart and dropped the class. Everyone can use another study hall.
I don’t try to fool myself about my handy-man status. I believe in trickle-down economics. If I hire someone to do these projects for me, I am helping the economy. Call me a one-man stimulus.
But Brooke’s dad is a very handy person. In fact, he believes in doing everything himself. The guy once painted his whole two-story house -- up on a ladder and everything. He’s never met a ratchet or socket he didn’t like. I’m sure in his eyes, his daughter marrying a guy who can’t hang a picture straight is a huge failure on his part. To him, I am likely as disappointing as New Coke. Or the movie Gigli. Or Ryan Leaf’s football career. You get the picture.
So, Brooke orders the crib and the dresser “to be assembled.” This is an extreme sin as far as I am concerned. I’d rather pay the $50 for assembly than spend a whole weekend trying to figure out how to screw Part A into Part D.
But Brooke knew her father was coming for a weekend and thought it would be a great project for the two of us to tackle. Thanks, Brooke! Maybe one day I will set it up so you and my mom can visit the Bureau of Motor Vehicles together for a new registration or license. Just a fun way to spend a Saturday.
So her dad and I tackle the crib and dresser. Her brother was here too, but he felt it best to watch sports on television. This might be the last time you ever hear me say this, so listen closely: her brother is a smart man.
By the way, Brooke and her mom tackled the difficult job of shopping for bedroom accessories. Is there any occasion that does not result in a shopping trip for women? Uncle Al just died? “Oh, I will need a dress for the funeral.” The Yoders are doing a barn raising down in Amish country? “Oh, they are going to need a welcome mat. Let’s go to Target.”
The crib was relatively easy; probably only took about two hours. The dresser was a whole other matter. Sweat dripping off my bald head – I never knew how much my head sweated until I didn’t have any hair to absorb it – I would continuously hand him a tool, or hammer in a nail, or read a direction…all incorrectly. Time and time again, he found a way to fix it. But even Mr. Tool Time was struggling with this pesky project. We’d have had better luck tackling the budget deficit. Let John Boehner read these dresser directions; we’ll work on cutting Medicaid.
Several hours later and still not finished, we called it a night and started drinking beer. Now there’s a project I feel confident in tackling. No drills or socket wrenches involved. Just good father-in-law/son-in-law bonding time.
In the morning, I woke up to Brooke and her father finishing the dresser. She apparently became frustrated with our ability to get it done and decided to pitch in herself. Hey, I’m not proud. Don’t let me get in your way. I’ll just watch Sportscenter.
After a couple hours, they unveil the finished project. I walk into our freshly-painted room and spy a beautiful crib-and-dresser combo that would make Martha Stewart smile. Brooke is beaming. Her dad is sweating, but clearly happy. Her mom comes in so she can also admire the handiwork.
We are all standing there envisioning a tiny Sydney romping around the room with her rattle and pacifier when Brooke says, “Hey, look at these markings on the front of the dresser top.”
We look and can’t figure it out. We examine every inch of the dresser and determine the markings are not right. We tear through the directions and figure out that this particular piece is on backwards. Not a big deal, except every other piece is attached to it. Essentially, we’d have to take the whole thing apart and start all over if we wanted this piece to be right.
Her dad’s brow furrows. His upper lip curls into a snarl. His face gets red. I back up a few feet. He finally says, “Screw it, let’s just leave it like it is. It isn’t hurting anything.”
I nodded my head in agreement. Finally, he was coming around to my way of thinking. A handyman after my own heart.
