My husband and I have very different ideas about how chores should be done around the house. Before I retired, we didn’t argue about it much, mostly because I was gone a lot and didn’t have the energy to fight. Now that I’ve been retired for more than a year, I’m tanned, rested and ready.
Let’s just say we have had a few unpleasant disagreements over housework, yard work and home maintenance. I’m kind of a worker bee, and he is anything but. During one of our altercations, I accused him of being lazy, and he came back with, “I’m not lazy! I’m unmotivated.”
It came to a head this week because I said we are finally going to fill those small holes in the drywall leftover from a previous owner. He’s like, whatever, dude. Let me know when it’s over.
Simple project, right? I filled the holes with Spackle, and let it dry. I didn’t sand it smooth, because our paint is textured. I tried to dab it on in the same fashion as the texture. In a motivational peak, Dale found some paint in the garage labeled, “Downstairs.” I gave it a big stir and used a paper towel to dab over the Spackle.
I did the first hole, and it looked great, except it was the wrong color. Upon closer inspection, it would seem there are two colors on the downstairs walls. One lighter and one slightly darker. I used the darker paint on the lighter wall.
Of course, I did.
Suddenly, Dale goes all Sherwin-Williams on me and says we’ll have to paint the whole room. I said, no, really, these are small holes, and if we can get something close, I’m sure it will look fine. He said you’re always such a perfectionist. It won’t be good enough for you.
Then I said, “I am not frozen in time. People change and evolve, and I am less of a perfectionist than I used to be. Look at that caulking around the kitchen floor tile! Have you heard me complain? I just squint and look the other way.”
He seemed doubtful but pried off a tiny chip of paint from a corner of the wall where the movers dinged it, and he wrapped that in plastic. And off he went to the store. This might be when I said his favorite part of chores is to put on a clean shirt and go bye-bye in the car.
Dale returned to reveal that in order to match the paint, they need a chip the size of a quarter. Again, he starts up with this thing about painting the whole room. I said that’s crazy talk! Just do the best you can. I’m sure it will be fine. He went back to the store and returned with a quart of paint.
I dabbed it on with a small wad of scrunched up paper towel, and it looks about perfect to me. Because I had all that crap out anyway, I went around the downstairs – the lighter color rooms and the darker color rooms – and filled and painted to my heart’s content. The previous owners were hole-crazy. In some places, it looks pretty damned fabulous, but in others, it’s just fabulous.
I’m attributing my new tolerance for imperfection to art, where I continue to have fun under-performing. But some of it is age and expected longevity, I think. I want to be a responsible homeowner and enjoy a nice house, but I really don’t worry anymore about resale. Whatever happens, happens.
By the time we leave this home, we’ll probably be dead or moving to assisted living. Somebody younger and more anal-retentive can take over. In the meantime, I believe Dale is feeling a wee bit guilty and is now on board with my yard work strategy. Details to follow.