Feb. 15, 2005 - 3:40 p.m.

Counter Terrorism

Or "Why I Haven't Been Able To Update This Time (No.37 in a series)"

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NewWifey(tm): "Honey, where are you?"

Dangerspouse: "...............hiding."

NewWifey(tm): "Good boy."

I know when I'm not wanted.

In early December NewWifey(tm) joined the ranks of the unemployed when she either: a) could not turn her personal ethics switch to "off" when management ordered her to kill baby ducks, or b) could not bend over far enough to allow management unrestricted and unlubricated access to her colon...depending on who's story you chose to believe. Either choice was uncomfortable for her (although "b" less so, now that she's married). So she quit.

I wasn't particulary thrilled the morning she sprang the news of her departure on me, coming as it did in the thick of the Christmas Charge Card season. But she is my wife, so I supported her decision. If I recall, my exact words were "There there Snookums, it's not your fault. God just made you gals too weak to handle workplace stresses. It's more proof that a woman's place is in the home."

When I was able to squint out of my swollen left eye again I saw that NewWifey(tm) had stomped off and was now unloading lumber from her SUV. It looked like she had stopped at Home Depot on her way home from that last day at work and wiped them out of all the Old Growth products she could find.

"Um...honey, what's with all the wood?" I asked.

"I've decided I hate our kitchen" she said. "So I'm gonna build a new one."

I watched as she unloaded boxes of wood flooring panels, three lengths of counter top, several crates labled "Light Fixture", and plank after plank of different length lumber. When she was done the entire length of driveway was covered, and I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

"So does this mean you're not gonna go out and look for another job right away?"

"I'm too weak to handle workplace stresses, remember? Now get out of my way so I can haul this shit inside."

The next day she got up early and started smashing things. At least, that's what it looked like to me. The book cases she had only recently completed were dragged into the dining room, the layer of vinyl flooring was stripped to the sub-floor, wallpaper was peeled off in jagged strips, and cabinet doors, moulding, door frames and light fixtures lay scattered in piles around the stove and fridge.

Alas, immediately afterwards her Magnum Opus had to be put on hold. The next day she left to visit her sister in Charlotte for three days, but because of circumstances (detailed in an earlier entry) she ended up being stuck for three weeks, missing Christmas. I knew if I disturbed anything during that time I'd be a dead man on her return, so I was forced to cook on one leg, twisted at a 30 degree angle to accomodate two kitchen cabinets which had been ripped from the wall and were now partially blocking my oven door.

When she finally got back, more bad news. After stripping off mounds of ugly pre-war wallpaper, NewWifey(tm) determined that several of the walls were bad. I thought she was just looking for any excuse to use the reciprocating saw I got her for her birthday, but I wasn't about to advance that theory to her face since she was holding the damn thing and I knew what it could do when wielded in anger. Have you ever seen a live cow stuffed into a wood chipper? Just like that.

Then, when the drywall was cut away and those vertical stud thingies were all exposed, she determined that she didn't like the way the wires were routed. Her grand scheme called for the light fixtures not only to be changed, but to be moved as well.

To be moved 3 inches to the left.

NewWifey(tm) has a thing about symmetry. When she measured the old light and discovered that one side was 70 inches from the wall, and the other side was 76 inches (to the opposite wall) she couldn't sleep that night. I swear to god, we've lived at Dangerhouse for almost 5 years now, and up until last week when she whipped out that tape measure I would have wagered you a Corgi that the light fixtures were centered in the room.

But no. They weren't. And so NewWifey(tm) maniacally spent the next day crawling through a sea of itchy pink insulation in our attic in order to install a stud between two joists (don't ask me what any of that means, I'm just repeating by rote what I heard 5,728 times over the course of 6 hours). Then she drilled down though the ceiling, threaded mounting rods and wires back to the attic, and yes, moved the fixture base 3 fucking inches to the left.

We now have, and I can prove it to .001" tolerance (she's got a laser level/ruler), EXACTLY 73 inches between the ends of our new light fixtures and the corrosponding far wall.

Hooray, hooray.

This meant, of course, an additional span of time where I had to contort myself in order to cook even the simplist of dishes. Plus, you had to brush a layer of sawdust, asbestos and dioxin off any dish I prepared. This got hard when I made soup, but I ended up just stirring it in and she never noticed. Very inconvenient, I can tell you.

I hear a number of you ladies - and more than a few toolbelt girded Real Men - saying, "Yo, Dickface. Why not grab a circular saw and help the poor girl if you want the project done faster?"

You've never been married to my wife, have you.

Trust me on this one. Unless you're a General Contractor with at least 10 years of on-site experience, she doesn't want your help. And since I still have to refer to the manual to figure out which end of the screwdriver to use, my life would be immediately forfeit if she saw me so much as LOOK at a wire cap.

And frankly, that's fine with me.

One of the reasons I agreed to marry NewWifey(tm) in the first place, aside from her policy of unrestricted 3-input access, was her willingness to take on chores that I would gladly contract cervical cancer in order to get out of doing.

I hate, I mean absolutely loath, working with tools. I don't know how I came to this shameful state, but it's been this way since I was a little kid. In 6th grade when my buddies were figuring out how to hotwire their parents' cars, I was inside stealing the butter out of their fridge to make Hollandaise sauce. I learned just enough to fix my motorcycles, then stopped forever. I am so bad with tools I wouldn't even meet the minimum skill level required to work in an unregulated Chinese coal mine. (Come to think of it, are there any regulated Chinese coal mines?)

Needless to say then, I've been about as welcome in my own kitchen during this period of renovation as a priest in a Day Care center. Every day for the last week and a half I have pulled Stanley into the garage, walked through the door to the basement, and stayed there. I have my Playstation, my free weights, a heavy bag, a speed bag, bike rollers, and a massive stereo down there. Plus a 6,000 acre bathroom just outside my door when the need arises, and 4 pizza delivery joints on speed dial.

Now that I think of it, there really is no reason to come up even after the kitchen is finished.

Oh yeah...that policy of unrestricted 3-input access she grants me.

Never mind.

I would have been equally happy to hole up in front of my monitor and provide blow-by-blow accounts of all the hammer blows to you folks here at D-Land. But all the lumber, counter tops, flooring, wallboard, paint, rollers, adzes, derricks, and whatever the hell else she needed to turn our kitchen from "green grey" to "grey green" were stored in...the computer room.

Now this would not normally mean a disruption of Dangerspouse entries. I would just post entries from work. However several weeks ago the Evil Overlords at Souless Radio Conglomorite, Inc. decided to install some sort of paranoid right wing tracking program on all our computers. Not that they think any of us are surfing for underage farm animal porn or anything, but...they know who they're dealing with. So they're taking no chances.

I've been able to get around this Orwellian conundrum a bit by using an ISP blocker so I can at least cruise around and read my favorite diaries at work. But I can't ADD an entry of my own (according to the IT guy I bribed with a farm porn URL). So that means I have to update from home.

Where my computer has been buried by This Old Spouse.

But... you can see I have now updated.

Free at last, free at last! Thank Lowe's almighty, free at last!

We now have "dry sage" walls in our kitchen (two of which are new walls), some faux marble counter tops, two new - and repositioned - light fixtures, a new wood floor, new wiring, and some other shit she told me about but I'd already tuned her out at that point. Crown molding, I think. But I could be wrong. It might have been Crown Royal, for all I know (if only).

There are a few things still stored in the Computer Room that need to be hammered and cursed into place in the kitchen - trim, and a few decorative gee-gaws - but nothing I can't weave around after lacing up a pair of toe shoes. Computer, ho!

And now here I am just blathering off the top of my head about something even I don't find particularly intersting. Oh well, you paint what you see.

Oooh! Oooh!

Speaking of - here's what I saw when I walked in the door the other day:

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.

It's NewWifey(tm)'s ass!

In response to having her unkempt, torn-sweats-clad ass being put on display in such an unflattering fashion, NewWifey(tm) graced me with her usual ladylike response:

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.

*sigh*

My funny Valentine.....

Ok, well, that's it for this episode. In honor of having my stove back, I've made Chinese steamed and roasted glazed duck (it was that or leftover pizza. NewWifey(tm) threatened a blood soaked revolt if she had to eat pizza again, so duck it was). And it's just ready to come out of the oven now.

Oh, before I go, a quick joke.

NewWifey(tm) kept the "Blue Collar Comedian Tour" on the tube in the background for a few hours while she worked yesterday. Being a classy broad, and all. At one point she came running down the stairs and yelled to me:

"Hey! Do you know what 'Tulsa' spelled backwards is?"

"Uh....um.... no." (I'm terrible under pressure.)

"It's 'a slut'! I never knew that!"

"Wow. How about that."

"Yeah. And do you know what 'a slut' done backwards is?"

I fell for it. "...what?"

"A hundred bucks extra!" She screamed with glee and ran back up the stairs to start pile driving again.

Thank god for 3-input availability or I'd be on a tramp steamer bound for Algeria this time tomorrow. "Vive la Legionnaires!"

Ciao!