After moving in almost three years ago, we finally sprung for a new ceiling fan in our bedroom. I’d like to say I have no clue why we waited so long but let’s be real, doing honey do’s with your honey, sucks. I found this out when we moved in together and realized it’s nothing like how Pinterest portrays it. There are no cute paint fights or taking breaks for lemonade and Paninis. It’s putting on that shirt with the quesadilla-size stain on the front and the shorts with the hole in the crotch. It’s realizing half way through prepping you forgot a paint brush so you convince the other person it’s their turn to make the third (f&#^$%) trip back to Home Depot. Then, upon your return, the person left back at the ranch to keep truckin’ has been playing Candy Crush since you left.
Admittedly, I am not a patient person. I’ve been known to drill five holes, get them all wrong, return the frame and buy a bigger one to cover them up and move on. When I met my husband, I quickly found that this was not going to fly anymore. He’s more of a “practical” person. Measure, mark the wall, measure again, grab the level, drill, measure… Ugh. Let it be known, us women will think no less of you if you search out a handyman to get things done so that A) we know the thing won’t blow up when we flip the switch, and B) we will still want to be married to you after it’s hung. Unfortunately, men have this ridiculous thing called “pride” and have convinced themselves for generations that calling up another man to do stuff around their manor leads to impotence and lowered-testosterone levels.
So, let the fun begin and the insults fly. While my shoulders are burning from holding a ceiling fan above my head and he’s yelling at me to hold the (f*%$#%^) flashlight still, I’m ready to Goodbye-Earl him and get back to my Netflix marathon. And Lord knows I’m not perfect. His hands are getting sweatier and sweatier trying to drill into the support beam with a police-grade flashlight slowly sinking into his eyeballs as my ADHD has me honed in on a daddy long leg. All because I HAD to have the floor model that is (of course) missing a piece but we won’t find that out until all the electrical wires have been tucked nicely back into the ceiling.
This leads to the inevitable, “I need ten minutes!” as two grown five-year-olds storm off mumbling insults under their breath and hoping the stepping stool collapses. Then, after the cooling off period it’s safe to enter the war zone again and things finally start running smoothly. The wires get put back together, the last few screws are drilled in, blades are popped in and voila, our ceiling fan is installed. Finally, the true test. He takes his cell phone down to the garage with him to turn the circuit breaker back on.
He calls, “Okay, it’s back on. Is it working?”…
Me, “No.” … Silence. “Just kidding, yes!”