![]() ![]() ![]() While I have painted many rooms (Jerrod is not a fan of painting), planned and planted a back garden with jasmine, climbing roses, lavender, and canna lilies, taking into consideration the existence of the inexplicable concrete pad, I have not picked up a hammer. You may be thinking that instead of being a whiney glass-half full-lady, why don’t I get busy? This is an excellent question. Nevertheless, after two years, shouldn’t the closet doors be installed? Shouldn’t the holes in the ceiling, caused by various demolition calamities, be patched? Shouldn’t the pile of leftover sheet rock moldering in the corner of the living room be dispatched to the déchetterie? He carefully disassembled le tout lustre, filled the entire dishwasher with the heavy strands of exquisite European crystal, then reassembled it perfectly and restored it to its Edith Wharton-era glory. I will say that Jerrod did a magnificent job refurbishing a 19 th century chandelier we snagged for a hundred Euros. Or, as they say in French, n’importe quoi. ![]() Jerrod’s dad is a trial lawyer who believes details are, you know, whatever. Perhaps you can trace our differing opinions to our families of origin: My father was a meticulous industrial designer who believed God was in the details. If there’s running water and a bucket you can turn over and use as a stool, he’s good. Jerrod believes, as he says, in functionality. This is our core renovation disagreement: I believe each job should be completed one at a time. “When are we going to do the plaants? Can we say next week? If I paint the plaants, will you install them before they sit around so long they need another coat of paint?” I can be a whiner, and plaants is indeed the perfect, whiney word. ![]()
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