DIY is the bane of my existence. I wouldn’t mind if The Man that I live with was any good at DIY but sadly around my house, Do It Yourself would be more aptly rebranded as Don’t Injure Yourself – he is deeply challenged in this area.
The only thing worse than a bad DIYer is a bad DIYer that thinks they’re a good DIYer. Whenever he embarks on a house project, I get a nagging feeling of dread in my stomach that lasts for the duration of the effort. The unfortunate fact is that his average time spent on a home improvement is as much as 3-4 weeks for something minor (the u-bend came off the sink in mid-May and is showing no sign of returning to its rightful place) while more advanced projects may never be completed. We have a lot of ornamental shelves, you know that shelf that has never been trusted to support much more than a small photograph frame?
The 5 Stages Of Not Murdering Your Husband While He’s Doing DIY
Stage 1 – The DIY Begins
The first sign that some DIY is afoot comes when I step straight into a tray of paint that he has judiciously decided to “store” on the landing. Why, why, why would someone keep a surprise tray of white paint on the floor? In a carpeted area? At the TOP of a flight of stairs? In a house that contains two small babies, one of whom demands constant carrying? Where is he even painting? Why am I not consulted? Why must he DIY?
Stage 2 – The Rage Sets In
I know he’s trying to improve our lives but why does he not understand that paying a professional is the best way to make our lives better?
Stage 3 – The Rage Builds
The rage slowly builds as I attempt to navigate the sea of debris that attends his every DIY undertaking. Why is there a collection of salvaged bricks and pallets in the garden awaiting transformation any day now? The proposed destiny of these pallets has changed many times: from ambitious vertical herb garden to kindling for the pizza oven that he has been planning to build with the salvaged bricks since we moved in. “Please don’t start on the pizza oven, please don’t start on the pizza oven,” goes my internal mantra.
Stage 4 – The Rage Spikes
The baby has potentially eaten a piece of the dismantled hard drive that was being stored on the living room floor because of course, that is the best place for it. It’s hard to tell if a piece is missing and The Man can’t remember because the thing has been sitting there for so long awaiting some mythical set of perfect conditions before repair can commence.
Stage 5 – The Hell-Fury Is Unleashed
A tirade of epic proportions is called for during which as a result of some wild gesticulating I naturally incur a minor (but deeply irritating) injury from a random nail that is sticking out from a recently assembled Ikea bookshelf. A debate ensues about whether or not a tetanus shot might be in order. “You’re always on at me to assemble the Ikea furniture,” he argues, while I try to stem the bleeding. “Now is not the time,” I snarl as the 3-year-old wanders in having just smeared white paint on his own face.
Main image via Zara