How Men Hang Curtains, Part Two

Three months after writing How Men Hang Curtains my curtains were still in the bag. Of course. After all, it’s only been nine months since I bought them. I could have grown another person in that time.

Some of you may ask why I did not hang them myself. Fair question. I guess I could have, but there are problems with that. First, Husband does not allow me to touch his tools. I can’t really understand what the big deal was about me using a chisel to remove kitchen wallpaper. After all, he needed to repair that wall anyway. And I did buy him three new chisels to replace the one that was broken. And I did get the wallpaper off…

Second, no matter how perfectly I did it, it would not have been done right. It would not matter if my way was just as good as his. If it was not done his way it’s the wrong way. Really, it’s quite amusing that he thinks Bob Vila “doesn’t know shit“, though he does think Norm is a genius and makes sure to TiVo every show.


So, after three more months of me asking occasionally, making sure not to nag ( We wouldn’t have to nag if they just did what we asked the first time, now would we?), Husband finally got out the tools and the drapery rod I bought in North Carolina last October and went to work.

And promptly realized that the rod was about 6 inches too short. Hey, I don’t carry measurements with me on vacation! And it was $7 (And is now for sale on Craigslist. Anyone? Anyone?)!!

Soooooo, the next day I went to Target and purchased a new, longer rod. And waited…

Thirteen days later Husband got out the tools again. And this one’s finials were too big for the space. Sigh.

I was bound and determined to get those dang curtains up! I told Husband not to touch the tools, grabbed the wrong rod and rushed back to Target to find one with smaller finials. I may have pushed several old ladies out of the way in my haste, but whatever. I’m sure if I’d stopped to explain they’d have understood. I grabbed a rod, checked the size and raced home. I got there just as Husband was droopy-eyed and about ready to nap. No way was that happening.

Then came the “discussion” about how low I wanted them to hang. He doesn’t seem to understand that that 1/2 an inch makes a huge difference (insert frat-boy humor here). I take the curtains out of the bag and Husband declares that he doesn’t like them, and they don’t match. For a graphic designer he really has no sense of color in design. Still, shush up and hang ’em, dude.

We get into another “discussion” about where he was placing the rod holders. I wanted to put the curtains on the rod and mark the wall after seeing how they hang, to take into account variations in manufacturing and the size of the drapery rod; he felt that if the package said 84 inches it would be 84 inches (insert more frat-boy humor here). He was very patronizing and condescending as he explained to me once again why he was right. When I protested his attitude he said he just “can’t believe you don’t get this!” He places the brackets based on his measurements.

He protests about the height of the curtains, the necessity of sheers, the placement of the sheers. He recommended curtain-sheer-curtain-sheer instead of curtain-sheer-sheer-curtain. Seriously.

We get them on the rod and he lifts the rod onto the brackets and…they’re hanging too high. I only snickered when his back was turned. I told him to just leave it – we’d get it right on the next house. He refused, saying I’d never let him live it down.

Which was true.

Fifteen minutes later he’d moved all the brackets lower and re-hung the curtains, and they were perfect.

Really, childbirth was easier.


When Your Wife Has It Coming Out of Both Ends, It’s Time to Man Up and Not be an Ass

I had a colonoscopy today.

For those of you lucky enough not to know, in order to do a colonoscopy the doctors need a clear, clean colon. And there’s only one way to do that.

In my case that meant 4 Dulcolax and a 238ml bottle of Miralax poured into some Crystal Light iced tea. This after eating nothing but a lemon italian ice and 1 bottle of Ensure for the 21 hours prior.

After awhile the stuff started working, but then the same thing happened this time that happened last time I went through this: I started getting nauseous. Very nauseous. Despite drinking a ton of water I started vomiting. I’m not sure if my system didn’t like the Mirolax, or if it didn’t like it combined with Crystal Light iced tea, or if I was just getting dehydrated.

So, suffice to say I did not feel well.

It was a rough night, but Husband was kind enough to finish giving Son the pizza I microwaved for him, and to make supper for himself. He was also nice enough to leave me the dishes and the job of making Son’s lunch for school the next day. He did agree to drop Son off at school the next morning – only the second time ever (the first was last year’s Colonoscopy). I’m not complaining – that’s what I do while he’s at work.

But why is it that some men need explicit instructions on how to do simple daily tasks? Why does a man with a four year old have to be told night after night where the pajamas are kept (okay, he stopped asking awhile ago, but he asked for waaaaay too long!)? And why does the observation that Son needs a bath have to predicate a hissy fit of epic proportions about being late for work instead of a simple question of whether it needed to be done before school or if it could wait until after? And why would he not know that his sick wife would appreciate help getting Son ready for school, that “getting ready for school” means getting him dressed and fed, and to do that himself?

So I, still issuing orders from both ends, made Son breakfast and got him dressed. Husband did put on his socks and shoes and put the lunch I’d made the night before into his lunchbox with the cold pack, so there’s that.

And I think he wished me good luck as he left with Son, but I wouldn’t know.

I was still issuing orders.

How Men Hang Curtains

Six months ago I bought new curtains for our dining room. The cheap white sheers that are hanging there are too short and, thanks to Son, yogurt stained. Last weekend I asked Husband to hang the new curtains. After grousing, as usual, Husband went out to the garage to get some tools.

When he walked into the garage he commented that we’d had the last garage sale we’ll be having for awhile, so it was time to get it back in order (a socially acceptable translation to what was actually said).

He went through the shelves and moved things around so that they fit better and were more organized, and only threw a few things.

He got rid of empty boxes we’d been saving for moving, which doesn’t look like it’s happening soon. He told me at this rate we’d never move, and he was giving up all his dreams and accepting that we’re stuck here.

He spilled purple paint on the floor of the garage, cursed colorfully, and cleaned it up.

He organized his power tools, then started to straighten up his toolbox (one of those red Crafstsman boxes with the drawers and such). He decided he needed another toolbox. At my suggestion he went to Home Depot and got some pegboard (at $10 a much more frugal alternative).

He took out the power tools, cut the pegboard to the proper size, then hung the pegboard on the wall.

He built a table as a stand for the toolbox to provide more storage underneath for his power tools.

He lovingly organized his tool box and hung some tools on his new pegboard.

He re-organized his power tools again, storing some underneath his toolbox in the new space now provided for them.

He swept out the garage.

The garage looks great!

And can someone please tell me why a man would spend six hours organizing and straightening a garage, then throw the wax ring from a gallon of milk on the floor not two hours later?

My curtains? Still in the bag.

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