“Welcome to Lowes, how can I help you?” The woman in the blue apron offered a somewhat fearful grin, a move I couldn’t blame her for donning. I was standing at the paint counter with one child repeatedly pushing the “For Help Press Here” button and a second doing a drum solo with paint stirrers. There also may or may not have been flour in my hair and pumpkin dripping down my sweatshirt. Can you help me? Girl, where do I begin?
“I need you to save my husband’s life.” I explained.
The Lowes’ paint lady’s face grew serious. She leaned forward, raised and eyebrow and said in the most sober voice, “Honey, I can help. I do this often.”
She stood back, adjusted her apron and continued, “What did he do? Wrong color? Wrong room? Giant paint stain in the middle of the living room floor? Or did he decide to do a quick ‘touch-up’ the night before Thanksgiving and ruined the entire wall?”
I stood there in slack-jawed awe, “How did you know?”
She nodded with a knowing smirk, “You’re my third one today.”
In a strange way, I was comforted by the thought that women across the tri-county area shared my dismay. Were they too victims of stubborn foreign husbands who watched too much HGTV which led these crazed foreigners to a false believe that DIY renovations were “easy”? Was it possible American husbands suffered this same affliction? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was not alone.
It started in September when the Turk found a deal on flooring at Costco. (If you don’t have a foreigner in your life, you will never understand the draw of Costco on the immigrant population of America. If you do have a foreigner- solidarity sister.) I’d been begging for new flooring from the day we signed the papers on our little slice of the American dream/money pit. The already disgusting, cream carpet we’d inherited was never meant for a world with Nugget. I’ve spent the last 3 years renting carpet cleaners every few months, crawling around with a spot cleaner and chasing Nugget with a bottle of my own cleaning concoction trying to keep our rugs from looking like those found in an Atlantic City casino (thankfully minus the cigarette burns). However this summer, the carpets won. There was no more saving them so when the Turk found his “great price,” on flooring, I was weak and I succumbed.
“It not cost much if I do it myself.” He boasted.
“But you don’t know how to do flooring.” I countered.
“It easy. I can do in 2 days. It so easy, it only snap together. All I need are few tools.”
“But…” I tried.
“No. I am engineer. I can handle putting in living room floor.”
“But you’re a water engineer and if we were putting in a living room fountain I’d be behind this 100, but…”
“I take off 2 days and I get done while you guys at school. You not even notice. We be done for Thanksgiving.”
As a women who has been married to this man for more than a decade, I knew this statement was absolutely false. I knew it would not take 2 days and I knew there was no way this man could disassemble half of our bottom floor without issue. But I also really, really wanted floors that were not crispy so sometimes a wife has to have blind faith.
Day 1: My entire home was covered in a thin film of carpet stank and dust but it was nice to arrive home to floors that didn’t look like they could be used on the a CSI episode. Plus we did have some quality family time pulling staples out. (The first of many things the Turk hadn’t thought of in this process.)
Day 2: Like a fool, I thougth I might arrive home after a long day of work to see the beginning of my new hardwoods appearing. Nope. Instead I found the exact same floor I’d left (stapeles and all) with the added bonus of gray strips and slashes on my tan walls.
“Um, what the hell happened here?” I tried to remain cool but off to the side Number One was muttering to Nugget, “I told you Mom was going to be sooooooo mad.”
“What?” The Turk feigned stupidity.
“Are you serious? What the hell did you do to the walls? You were working on the floors, how did you manage to destroy the walls in the process?”
“It still wet. It will match when it dry.” He pleaded.
“Fool, it doesn’t dry lighter it dries darker. You used dark gray paint to touch-up our tan walls. How did you not notice this?” Here is where I need to explain that the Turk didn’t simply touch up a couple spots above the baseboards (…where he put huge holes in the walls removing the carpet but that’s a story for another time.) No, he got so involved with his touching up that he painted swipes as far as he could reach and instead of touch-up dots, he went with large patches and whirling swipes of the wrong color. He felt so successful doing it on one wall that he went on to do it on 3 more, including the wall with the vaulted ceiling. When he does something, that Turk does it big.
As I sat on the staple-riddled subflooring staring at my tan and gray zebra walls, I wondered what were the odds the garbage men would notice if I rolled the Turks lifeless body deep within the recently extracted carpet. But then I realized I have children to raise and jumpsuits like those worn in the pokey certainly don’t work for my body type. Instead, I abandoned all hope of hosting Thanksgiving dinner, had a healthy glass of wine and called it a day.
Sunday afternoon, a full week after the “2 day” project had begun, it was over. With the help of that magical fairy in the blue apron at Lowes, some techniques I’d mastered back in art school and countless profanities muttered under my breath, I managed to fix my walls without any Turkish intervention.
To the Turk’s credit, my floors were beautiful even if they did take far longer than promised and to celebrate his craftsmanship, he promptly covered them with a massive Turkish rug.
You can take the Turk out of Turkey but…you know the rest…