Big news: our infamous basement remodel is nearly done.  Yes, the very one you’ve been reading about in these files for a couple of years now.  Except for a few bits of trim and the like, it’s history.

Of course, I knew it would be done now because it’s April, and if you recall, back in the file The Real Deal: Male Math, I used my husband’s Coefficient of Completion (The Most Important Mathematical Tool for Married Women Ever Developed™)* to calculate when that would happen, and the answer was “April.”  If you didn’t believe me about the Coefficient then, I hope you do now. When it saves you a lot of aggravation, don’t forget to send money.

Although I’m thrilled that we’ve reached this milestone, it only means that an old project has given way to a new project—and therein lies a problem.  You see, in the darkest depths of the whole basement struggle, I extracted a promise from my husband K—.  Since the basement was one of K—‘s priorities and I could have cared less about it, I thought it was only fair that he promise to make the next major project one that addressed one of my priorities: cleaning and organizing the whole house.

You can probably guess what’s going on.  Now that he’s gotten what he wanted from me (several years of labor and a hefty tithe from my paychecks), he claims not to “remember” making that promise.  If he were to honestly examine his conscience, I think he’d have to admit that “remember” isn’t quite the right word.  What he’s experiencing right now is something like “buyer’s remorse,” that panic that hits home buyers when they realize what they’ve gotten themselves into.

When it comes to our house, K— and I have vastly different priorities.  I was thinking about our divergent approaches to home ownership one day in my car when an interesting segment came on the radio news.  It was about changing patterns in furniture buying.  Among other things, I learned that hardly anyone buys dining room furniture any more because most people eat in front of a television instead.  Scary, but borne out by reality as far as I can see.

The report also cited statistics on who buys what, i.e., furniture priorities.  In order of acquisition, a man would get: a couch (also used for sleeping and eating), a TV, a VCR, a DVD, speakers, and finally chairs so more people can watch TV (although I find this one hard to believe because most of the men I know would just have other people sit on the floor).  Women, on the other hand, buy things like beds and dressers, and are responsible for purchasing 100% of the dining room sets sold (to the extent that any are sold at all these days).  Note that these are the things that encourage civilized, orderly living.  Also note that, technically, most of the furniture items men buy aren’t actually “furniture.”

Listening to that report was eerie.  It was like going to a psychic and having her tell you something that’s stunningly personal and true—something she couldn’t possibly have known if she weren’t actually psychic.  (Or in this case, married.)

The statistics could have been compiled from my life.  K— came with the couch and is responsible for the TV, the VCR, the DVD and the speakers.  I came with a mismatched bedroom ensemble and a hutch and insisted on the dining room set.  When I wanted to get a bedside table, K— questioned where the money would come from and then went back to picking out luxury options on his “fantasy truck” (i.e., the truck he’s “shopping” for but I won’t let him buy).  Not only can men and women not agree on what to do to a house, they can’t even agree on what to put in a house.

When we moved into our house, I had three priorities.  Number one, paint the inside walls.  Number two, replace the cracking kitchen floor.  Number three, paint, replace, gut or bomb the loathsome, inexcusably hideous PINK KITCHEN.  God knows why someone would create such a monstrosity, but I sure as heck didn’t intend for this particular monster to live long.

Silly me.  I should have known that my husband wouldn’t share my priorities.  The kitchen wasn’t even on his radar screen, and why should it have been?  He doesn’t cook.  To him, the kitchen is nothing more than a big passageway between the front hall and the dining room, which is itself just a wastefully large space adjacent to the living room where the TV is.  The kitchen is also a torture chamber in which, nightly, he’s forced to immerse his hands in boiling liquid with soiled dishes, but why would he want to remodel the room he associates with such perverse punishments…unless it’s to eliminate the sink?

His number one priority?  A shed.  Not even something to improve the living space for us, but instead something to improve the living space for the lawn mower.

Ten years have passed.  We still have naked walls, and God help me, the kitchen cabinets are still (excuse me while I retch) pink.  The kitchen floor actually did get replaced not long ago, but only after the cracks had become veritable fault lines and bits of flooring were sticking to our feet every time we walked through the room.  But…we have a wonderful blue shed and a basement out of Architectural Digest.  I’m sure the lawn mower and the washer and dryer are all very happy.  After all, they have better sleeping quarters than I do.

* Please enquire about lucrative product development opportunities.