I’d hit you over the head with it. I was going to title this post “square peg, round fucking hole” but given the last few days events, this title seemed to have more asymmetry to it.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks, basement-wise. Well, and marriage wise. I’d like to blame someone else, anyone actually, G.W. comes to mind, but in all things redecor-related, this one comes back to me. Things started out pretty good. Ben took a few days off and we hired Graham (sigh $) and they got all the framing done. The next weekend, we tricked the sons-in-law into coming to help with put the sheet rock on the ceiling. Turns out they are good for more than impregnating our daughters. Ha. But the next weekend came and Ben and I were on our own. It’s going to be hard to make this funny. Which clearly, as things progressed, it wasn’t.

Ben has asked me not to write about this, but I reminded him, that we have an obligation prevent these plaques from visiting someone elses home, or at least serve as a warning to others, it not…what is the point.

First, I stepped on another nail (actually it was some kind of prehistoric staple). Through the shoe (same shoes as before) into the sole (same foot) in almost (within a 1/4″) the same spot. Some people would have learned something from the first incident. Apparently, none of those people are me. Second, while carrying down no less than 44 – 8′ x 4′ boards, I managed to trip on the back step. The cement step, that I knew was there. I, of course, was the one walking backwards. Right on my ass and elbows. There were tears, and later bruises. Is there anything as disconcerting as that feeling of your spine collapsing like an accordion. To make matters worse, I couldn’t do anything right. The whole day. Every measurement was wrong, every screw went in crooked. I even started to take 1/4″ off of all my measurements – in hopes of a board fitting, once, just once on the first try. Never happened. We were grumpy. Tired and to be honest, sick of each other. Ben will say he wasn’t. But don’t be fooled, he’s lying.

The next day, was worse. We started off tip toeing around each other, and by lunch I was considering calling my good friend, Lauren May, Esquire. At this point not only did I not want to be married anymore, I didn’t want the house either. Just buy my half and get me the fuck out of here. We bickered, hollered, swore and argued our way through three pieces of sheet rock and a saw and 12 steps with that were 1/8″ too wide. At different points, each of us stormed upstairs, vowing to never return. I left first. After some cajoling I stated upon my return (okay, THIS is funny) that I would only do what he told me to. That lasted about 5 minutes – and when Ben asked me a question, even though I knew I shouldn’t, I said exactly what I knew would piss him off the most. Something to the effect, that I wasn’t allowed to do anything that it was “outside my scope.” Yep, Palov, that was the dinner bell. This time he left. And I quietly continued to finish the stairwell. I could hear the water running upstairs, I figured he either had the toaster and a full bath tub, or was soaking his head, which was about to explode.

I had hit full high riding bitch status. Ben will say I hadn’t, but don’t believe him, he’s lying. again.

SIDEBAR: I asked Tom if he heard us fighting. He said no, but commented that he had seen that Ben was home on Friday and wondered in passing if we were “getting busy.” My only response at this point, was that NOBODY at our house was getting laid this weekend. Or possibly…ever.

The next day, after apologies and promises we went back to work. While we didn’t argue, I did comment that maybe it would have been easier to do this project if we were drunk. I figured we’d probably make the same number of mistakes, but we probably wouldn’t have cared as much. But considering the violence and mayhem that went on here, and the number of utility knifes, saws and dremels we used, I guess that adding alcohol would have been asking for trouble. I should just be happy that nobody lost a digit or limb. By accident, or on purpose.

HERE IS WHAT WE FIGURED OUT HALF WAY THROUGH THE BATTLE ROYAL:
IF your partner tells you on the way to Home Desperate (the first day) to get a sheet rock rasp, get it. Don’t wait until the room is half done. That was just stupid.

IF you buy a chalk line string, make sure the chalk is included. Chalk is definitely not like batteries or tape. It’s not something you have laying around, it requires another trip to the Depot.

IF your partner tells you to go down and re-mark where the wiring is before the tapers cover them, go do it – before you forget and as a result end up with 3 holes in a perfectly rocked and taped ceiling. Not to mention creating a situation where the partner was right. Never a good thing.

IF you have trouble driving the screws all the way in, use shorter screws – not the really long ones. That made a huge difference. Duh.

CHECK the clearance between the wall and the “toilet,” lest you have to take down the wall and create a little niche to gain ONE WHOLE INCH – thus allowing the next oompa loopa sized toilet that you will be buying in 2 years to fit. (geeze I used Lest and Thus in the same sentence. That’s kind of sad.)

Found great tapers thanks to a friend. They came, they taped, we conquered. It doesn’t matter what I cost, we almost got divorced over sheet rocking, we would have killed each other taping. We still have to pick a floor, install it, paint, put in a sink and teeny tiny toilet, hang lights and finish the “mud room.” Shit, that’s a lot.

I had hoped to have the “open house” on our traditional, Not Thanksgiving Thanksgiving Dinner Friday, but needless to say, we will not be done by Thursday. Maybe we will finish in December and it will be a Christmas miracle.