Building a Home with My Husband Read Online Free Page B

me “the Girl from Epiphanema.” Still, for a long time, Hal remained unconvinced about my 3-D ineptitude. But after two decades of my balking at such inscrutable feats as lacing my shoes, giving up on fax machines and CD players, discerning no distinctions between models of cars, likening televised sports to moving wallpaper, and delaying driving until my thirties—all while he glided through the triple rings of height-length-and-depth with the grace of a bareback rider—he’s had to concede that I was right.
    Now he says, “It’s that darned third dimension again.”
    I nod, adding a pout to induce extra sympathy.
    “Then we’ll just deal with it, okay?” he says, his annoyance softening to alliance.
    “I’ll do my part,” I say, as he takes my hand. “Whatever the heck that is.”
    Our familiar imbalance now out in the open, we walk into the labyrinth, winding past bathrooms so well-appointed they look like Disney World sets, so unsullied they look like alternate realities. I want to make a joke, but this is serious business.
    Finally he stops between two displays. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s compare these sinks.”
    “One’s white, one’s gray.”
    “Right. But look. That one’s freestanding. The other’s set into a cabinet. That one has shiny fixtures, those fixtures are burnished. There’s tile, there’s marble. What do you like?”
    I look forlornly at the displays. There are too many details for me to assess, and anyway, they look like the sort of places other people live in—people like my older sister Laura, who’s decorated her Arizona house with kitschy collectibles from yard sales. Or my brother, Max, whose New Jersey house is done in stately Americana. Or the millions who watch renovation TV. I admire the knowledge those people possess, any one of whom would make a more suitable match for this thoughtful architect than I. Instead, he got a client and wife who’s never cared about owning things, and has felt at home among only two decorating styles: Whatever’s Already in Place When I Move In, and Eclectic Mementos with Good Stories Behind Them.
    “Well,” I finally offer, “I like the shiny faucets.”
    He frowns. “You do?”
    “You don’t?”
    “I like the burnished kind better.”
    Now it’s my turn to give a withering look. “Are you the architect, or the husband?”
    He grins. “I’m the husbitect.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “The architect will do the work. But the husband’s not a tyrant. This is about us .”
    Relieved to hear this, I turn back to the faucets. Okay, I’m more drawn to shiny faucets, but enough to make a case out of this? It’s not like when I was looking for the love of my life and had a clear image of what I wanted down to every detail. I’ve never even thought about faucets, and it’s not as if I couldn’t live with Hal’s preference. I suppose I could take a stand just to assert myself. But that’s one of the earliest lessons I learned about love, back before kindergarten, when I was playing dress-up with Laura and she always had to be the princess, I the queen: choose your battles. And this is one of the lessons I learned about love during the years away from Hal: it’s awfully easy to invent battles when none actually exist.
    “Well, husbitect,” I say, “just tell me what you like. If I feel strongly against it, I’ll say so. But since it doesn’t matter much to me, I probably won’t.”
    He squeezes my hand. “Think of all the lawsuits that could be avoided,” he says, “if every client in the world was like you.” He makes some notes on his clipboard.
     
    A week later, Hal announces that he’s ready to move ahead. He’ll buy a new sink, toilet, and tub, hire an installer, and pry off the bathroom wall tile himself. Although this plan has the virtue of economy, it makes me think about all the mug handles that have been waiting a decade for glue. I ask, “Uh, honey, how much would it cost to pay someone to do the