Can You Hear This?

My wonderful Darlin’ Boy recently took me to the Eastern shore of Virginia for a weekend to see the ponies and enjoy a little peace and quiet. It was just beautiful and we had a wonderful time. It did, however, spark the memory of the only other time I have been in that area of Virginia.

From the annals of Stupid Husband stories

A number of years ago, when I was still somewhat married to Beau’s father, he decided he would plan a weekend getaway for us. He has a penchant for seafood and had read somewhere about the abundance of fresh seafood on the island of Tangier which is in the Chesapeake Bay. Tangier, founded in the 1600s, was touted as being a quaint village with locals that still speak Elizabethan English due to their general isolation—you can only get there by boat or plane.

This was in late July or early August, if memory serves, and it was supposed to be “romantic”. The trip turned out to be everything but romantic which pretty much sums up my entire relationship with the ex—but that’s another story for another day.

Our trip began with the long drive from the western part of the state to the ferry dock on the bay—I don’t care for long car trips for starters. When we arrived at the Marina that hosted the ferry, we were directed to park the car, mine to be specific, over by some dilapidated boats. As the breeze wafted the scent of rotting fish to my nose I saw the ferry approaching.

We made our way on board and took the hour or so ride on the vessel which looked as if this might be it’s last voyage altogether. Since we had left home in the wee hours in order to make the long drive, we had not eaten in some time and, of course, the ex didn’t believe in stopping when driving for fear some other car on the highway might “lap him”. (Everything is a competition with the ex, don’t cha’ know!)

When I mentioned the late hour and my growing hunger, I was regaled with descriptions of the sumptuous seafood feast we would have once we arrived on the island. My hopes of enjoying such a repast were completely dashed upon our arrival and my first view of our destination.

The dock was, quite literally, falling apart. The shanties on the pier were decrepit. And, most obvious, was the appearance this island apparently had no plan for trash removal or a local dump, so people just dumped garbage wherever they found convenient. The populace believed that everywhere was convenient.

The waters surround the docks were filled with tires, old lawn mowers, spare parts to various types of equipment, grocery store shopping carts, bicycles, etc. Upon disembarking from the ferry, I nervously queried where we were supposed to go, where we were staying and where all the fabulous seafood restaurants were.

We were directed down a road to what could loosely be called a main thoroughfare to a row of old houses that looked once upon a time to be Victorian in style but architecturally obscured by the various “slap on” additions that had been made to them over the years. We arrived at the island’s “crown jewel”, an acclaimed B&B which was supposed to offer quaint comfort and seafood feasts.

In a language that was far from “Elizabethan” English, we were told that, no, OUR accommodations would be across the street. So across the street we went and up on to the only part of the structure that was air-conditioned, the pseudo-florida room front porch. There we found a group of weary guests that had been marooned on the island since the previous day.

At this point, I’m checking the ferry schedule to determine what time I need to be at the dock to leave that evening. These folks have been waiting for our ferry to arrive so that they can escape. One of these guests was a reporter from Baltimore, sent by her manager, to do a story on this “quaint hamlet” in the middle of the Chesapeake. She is quite verbal about the fact that this place is hot, humid, and infested with the most voracious mosquitoes found on the east coast. Miserable and itchy, she has no intention of writing a “glowing” recommendation of this place as great weekend retreat for Baltimore’s urban dwellers. The other couple, older and married, kindly asked us if we’d been married long. We said only a year or two and they promptly recommended if didn’t want to be filing for divorce in the morning that we should be on the ferry going home that evening.

If only I’d followed the advice, left on the ferry and gone ahead and filed for divorce the next day, I could have saved myself so much aggravation and misery, but, I didn’t. Looking back, “the handwriting was on the wall” by then but, alas, I failed to read it for several years thereafter.

Oh, well, such is life. Eventually, we learn our lessons.

Back to the trip from hell, we found our room which did sport a ceiling fan and two double beds. We came back downstairs only to be encouraged again by the old couple to leave while we had the chance as they headed toward the dock. The ex, however, was bouncing around like a new puppy, anxious to “explore” the island. Me, I’m still looking for some food and, by then, I wanted about a six-pack of cold beer to go with it.

That’s when I got the next bit of good news—it’s a DRY island. Meaning, they don’t sell or serve alcohol ANYWHERE on the island. If you don’t bring it with you, you suffer through your visit sober.

Going back to the main establishment across the street, the ex inquires where we might find something “light” to eat and drink to hold us until time for our fabulous “all you can eat” seafood dinner there at the B&B. We were directed to the crab shack back down at the dock. The term “shack” was generous. The menu consisted of a soft shell crab sandwich, a crab cake sandwich, and a fish sandwich. All served on white bread, not buns, sans condiments, with chips and on paper plates.

From here, the ex determines that we will rent bicycles and explore the island until dinner. Dinner is still a few hours away. The island is 6.5 miles long and about 1.5 miles at its widest point. Even by bike, it doesn’t take long to “see all there is to see.”

As I mentioned, it was hot, muggy and every inlet and tributary we pasted over was filled with the locals’ castoffs. I saw more bicycles in the “dumping” ground than I saw at the rental shop. We eventually wandered back to our accommodations to prepare for the dinner that the ex was anticipating with such glee.

At the exact time the meal was scheduled to begin, we were present at a table with 3 or 4 other tourists, who were likewise trapped, as dinner was served “family style”. The table was covered with an array of dishes, ranging from green beans to corn. There was a huge platter of ham slices and fried chicken. No seafood was to be seen.

About ten minutes after we sat down, a family of four arrived from Baltimore. Since the ferry had left and would not return until morning, it was presumed they arrived by private boat. They had actually flown in a small plane from DC area, expecting to make a quick stopover for a seafood dinner before making their way further south to their destination. Their young children, obviously hungry too, had begun to reach for a basket of rolls when one of the staff came out of the kitchen and discovered the newcomers. She brusquely announced the cost of the meal and the mother instantly reached out grabbing the hands of the children on either side of her.

I’ve eaten in 5 star restaurants serving the finest haute cuisine and it not cost as much as the price quoted to this couple. Apparently, this divine meal we were about to receive was included in the price of our overnight accommodations (over-priced too, considering) but, the meal alone sans a bed for the night was exorbitant. The newcomers mumbled something about a pressing engagement elsewhere, offered a swift apology for the inconvenience, raced back to their plane and took flight.

By this time, another staff member had appeared from the back of the house with a tray of dark brown golf balls. She carefully went around the table depositing exactly two of these “delicacies” on each plate and then retreated. The other server explained that this was the seafood portion of the feast. Two golf ball size crab cakes. That was limit of the seafood and no additional crab cakes would be offered but we were free to eat as much as we wanted of the other dishes on the table.

While edible, the meal was hardly worth a ferry ride and an overnight stay in this hovel. It was certainly no feast and didn’t include seafood, save the golf ball crab cakes which were heavy on the cake as it turns out. Undaunted by this, the ex inquires what fun activities we might enjoy after the meal. The server’s reply, “you can go down and watch the crabs molt.”

Thinking it was an attempt at humor, the erstwhile hubby says, “No really, what is there to do on the island.” She says in the same bland fashion, “You can go down and watch the crabs molt.” For the uninitiated, molting is the process whereby the crab sheds its shell, and has a soft membrane covering, hence the term soft-shell crab, until the covering hardens once again.

After leaving the dinner table, the ex pleaded with me to ride around the island on the bikes again. I preferred to go look for a boat captain as desperate for money as I was to leave and hire him to take me back to the shore and my car. The ex then proclaims that the “charming” place we’re staying will provide for such a romantic evening and the breakfast the next morning was bound to be better, since it was after all a Bed and Breakfast!

He apparently failed to realize the extent of my displeasure and discomfort but the possibilities of his experiencing any “romance” with me that night were about as good as finding an ocean in the middle of the Sahara. We made our way back to the limited coolness of the florida room/porch at our temporary digs to discover two of the other intrepid travelers had had the forethought to pack a bottle of booze.

To this day I don’t remember what it was—bourbon, scotch, corn liquor or white lightening and I really didn’t care. They were gracious enough to share, bless their hearts, and considering the limited amount of food I’d consumed that day, it didn’t take much to put me into a blissful state of numbness. Once there, I determinedly walked up the stairs, readied myself for bed and dug out my book. The ex appeared and was unbelievably surprised to discover he was sleeping in the other bed.

I finally drifted off, sustained by the thoughts of my departure in the early morn on the ferry. The night passed fitfully but finally it was light and I quickly prepared for my departure. As I was dressing, I observed the source of my discomfort the night before. I looked like I had the measles. I was covered in bites. Thinking initially it was mosquitoes, I took a close look at the room and the window but they were firmly covered by appropriate screens. Then I looked at the bed. There I discovered the problem—fleas, hundreds of them! That was it, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I wanted off that island and preferably sans hubby. I marched downstairs to confirm the arrival of the first ferry and the time of its departure and finalized my plans to be on it. My plans were quickly dashed, however, when I found out on this day the schedule was exactly opposite of the day before and I would have to wait for the afternoon ferry to get back to the dock where my car was located. Another eight hours in this nightmare—-would I ever wake up???

Feeling homicidal, but still having a tiny bit of control, I settled myself in the chair closest to the AC on the porch and proceeded to loose myself in my book. The appointed hour was announced by the sound of the fog horn on the ferry from the dock. I raced to the boat, almost ready to swear I would never set foot off terra firma again if I could ever get back to shore.

The conclusion to this mis-adventure is totally in keeping with the rest of the story. We arrived back at the marina only to discover that the previous night while I was being eaten alive, it caught fire and burned almost completely to the ground. The gods smiled on me, thankfully, and spared my little compact car. But as I climbed in, started the engine and began to maneuver through the burned wreckage to go home, I almost drove right off the pier into the water when the ex suggested a short side-trip to a little place he had read was “just off the beaten path, but picturesque…..”

Another entry from the annals of the “Stupid Husband Stories”!

Mother’s day should be a special day for mother’s everywhere. I can’t say that my memories of Mother’s Day while married to Beau’s father give me any warm fuzzies (fortunately, there were only a couple), but, one particular Mother’s Day does stand out in my memory!!

After Beau was born, the ex and I talked about selling our house in order to move into one more suitable for small children. If you’ve read any of the other “stupid” stories, you’ve already learned the ex has a great deal of confidence in himself. Enough, often, to believe he can successfully manage most any task. Needless to say, when we began to talk about selling the house, he was convinced he could do a FSBO (For Sale by Owner).

For several weeks, he would require that we clean everything thoroughly in order to host the vast numbers of folks that were going to respond to his advertisement for an Open House on Sunday afternoon. After 3 weeks, I was a little tired of this weekend wash-up. I thought my statement, that I wanted to have a nice, enjoyable Mother’s Day with my son————–not the odd n’ end stranger strolling through my extremely clean house, would have an impact on his plans. Silly me!!

It was with little surprise, but EXTREME displeasure, I discovered, on the way home from church, that the ex ran an ad for an Open House on Mother’s Day. In addition, he expected me to help with the preparation. Along with my mood, the day was dark and overcast. By noon, it was raining cats and dogs.

It might be appropriate, at this point, to mention we had problems with the roof directly over Beau’s room. It leaked! When it rained very hard, the water would actually run down through the attic crawl space and fill up the ceiling light fixture with water. I should also note, that the erstwhile hubby, had also “fixed” the leak twice before this particular rain storm, thus accounting for the on-going leaky problem, but that’s another story………

With the rain pouring and the light fixture already full of water, I pointed out that putting something in the attic to catch the water, until I could get a repairman to the house the next day, might be a good idea. After all, “we” were expecting lots of potential homebuyers in about an hour. So the ex gets a pan and goes up in the attic.

Beau is taking a nap and I am busy emptying the light fixture when I hear the ex thrashing about overhead. Then I hear a loud shout, followed by a crash and look up to see he had bottomed out. Yep, his backside was “shining” through a newly created hole in the ceiling. We never agreed on decorating ideas, but this was over the top, even for him. It startled poor Beau from his nap. Since he was still fairly little and had never been “mooned” before, he began to cry.

So, there I am, folks, on Mother’s Day with a crying child, a torrential rainstorm, a fast approaching “Open House”, sheetrock and insulation all over the floor and hubby’s butt adorning the ceiling of a bedroom.

My next actions were simple and well-documented and, fortunately for hubby, didn’t include a police report for accidental death or homicide. I left the ex to extricate himself from the ceiling and clean up the mess. I made a sign for the front door which read, “Open House cancelled due to a family emergency. Sorry for the inconvience!” I called a contractor friend to come the next day to fix the roof and, by the end of the week, the house was listed with a local real estate agent!

Lessons Learned: never schedule an open house on Mother’s Day, call a repair professional the first time the roof leaks, when decorating or adorning your home, if you want moons “shining” down on you from the ceiling, purchase the glow in the dark stick-on ones!

From the annals of “Stupid Husband” stories………….

Back in the day, when I was married to the ex, he often expressed his feelings of superiority where mechanical things were concerned. As a result, he was unwilling to consider any information I might offer whenever a mechanical problem arose. The following is one such example:

One lovely fall morning, preparing to go to work, I went out to the garage, got in my car and turned the key in the ignition. I got a sound sound like, puuuuurrrrrrrrdddddddddddddd but nothing else. So, I accepted the fact that the battery was probably dead, called to have my company car brought over from my office and went to work.

On Saturday, the ex, convinced of his superior mechanical ability, went out to check the car and promptly decided that the battery was not dead because he could turn on the headlights. Having grown up with a family of mechanics and engineers, I was perplexed. But, the ex determined, in his wide and varied mechanical experience—-he had owned a grand total of 3 different cars in his life, the last two of which he’d never done more than change the oil in them—-that the battery was fine, the starter was the problem.

I asked how he had come to such a specific conclusion in such a short time. His answer is right up there with his assessment of paint removal (see the “Wash Out”): He said that since he could turn the headlights on that the battery wasn’t dead so it must be the starter. His supporting evidence, his first car. He claimed that if the battery was dead, he couldn’t even turn on the headlights.

I suggested that before he raced off to Auto Zone that he might want to at least try to jump start the car just to make sure that it wasn’t just a dead battery. He completely lost it and told me that I was too stupid to know what was wrong with the car, it was obviously the starter and he was going to go get one and install it. And…..off he went.

About 45 minutes later, he returns, starter in hand and begins to disassemble the car to replace the part. Two hours later, he has managed to install the new starter. He calls me out to the garage, planning to bask in the glory of his mechanical wisedom and ability, puts the key in the ignition and turns—–puuuurrrrrrrrrrrdddddddddd!!!

His immediate reaction, it’s not the starter but the alternator!!!????

Once again, I gently suggested that he try to jump start the car just in case it was only a dead battery. After all, he’d just spent considerable time and money installing a starter unnecessarily, so maybe, just maybe, trying to jump start the car before buying and installing a new alternator might be a good idea??!! He exploded! “You are so stupid and you know nothing about cars, I can’t believe you even said that again! I told you, the battery’s not dead, I can turn the headlights on.”

I asked if it had ever occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, the battery had enough juice to turn on the headlights but not enough to turn the motor over???!!??? His response is not printable in polite company—-suffice to say, it was extremely insulting.

At that point, feeling somewhat homicidal, I told him if he was so certain he knew what he was talking about and I was too stupid to know a dead battery when I see one, then why didn’t he just prove me wrong and show me that trying to jump start the car wouldn’t work.

He flung the door of his precious import open, got in, started it up and proceeded to position it so he could jump start my little compact. He got the jumper cables and hooked the cars up. I got in my little car and, whadda ya know, that little engine just turned right over and purred. I left it running, got out, yanked the cables off my previously dead battery and threw them at the former hubby. At the same time, I told him emphatically just exactly what he could do with them (which was intended to cause serious bodily discomfort) and that I was going to Sears to purchase the only needed part for my car—————-a new battery!

The moral of this story…………………..sometimes the obvious answer is obvious because it’s the right one! And, mechanical ability is not gender specific! So, girls, you can change the oil if you want to and, guys, you can be the hero and do it for her if you want to ……………….just don’t assume she can’t do it for herself!

Perhaps Sugar, Honey and I were a little hasty in calling them “husband” stories! Over the years, since we’ve been telling these tales, I’ve heard quite a few from the “other side of the fence”, don’t cha know! It appears that shrewing, snippy wives can be the source of many a “stupid” story. So in fairness to all the wonderful, dear friends I have that just happen to be men, we may have to change the title to “Stupid Spouse Stories”, ’cause, friends, I’m here to tell ya, I’ve heard some doozies!

Here’s one that should amuse you………………

One gentleman friend of mine, Handsome, was once married to a woman who had a strong sense of her position in the universe. She believed that she was the center of it; everyone and everything else revolved around her! Now, Handsome, being a very tolerant individual was willing to let his former wife attempt to act like the sun and try to shine. Unfortunately, more often than not, it was overcast and cloudy, if you get my drift.

Handsome, being the child of a formidable Southern woman, had been properly taught that household chores and such were equal opportunity activities. On Saturdays, they would divide chores. Wifey always chose to take care of those inside the house, while directing Handsome to take care of those outside.

One such bright Saturday morning, wifey was apparently daunted by the challenges of her indoor responsibilities. At the same time, she somehow discerned that Handsome was just having more fun than a barrel of monkeys outside, doing the yard. She demanded an equal opportunity to have a “fun time” doing the lawn. Handsome obliged her and busied himself with vaccuming the rug.

After some time, Handsome busy with the vaccum glances out the window and sees wifey coming around the house, lawn mower and gas can in tow. Handsome, somewhat taken aback, paused and watched in amazement wifey’s attempt to start-up the lawn mower.

Carefully uncapping the gas can, wifey begins searching the mower for the tank. Under normal conditions, being a true Southern gentleman, I believe Handsome would have offered wifey some valuable words of assistance, but her shrewish behavior earlier that morning had left him unwilling to put himself in “the line of fire” again, so to speak. The important words Handsome would have offered were simple enough——gas is not required when using an ELECTRIC mower!

There Handsome stands, observing out the front window, wifey twisting, turning, screeching and shoving the ELECTRIC mower as she was attempting to put gas in it. The humor of the situation did not escape him and as he is rolling on the floor, clutching his sides and hiccuping with laughter, wifey comes in to find out why she can’t find the gas tank on the ELECTRIC mower.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, finding Handsome prostrate with laughter only added to her ire. The more angry she got, the harder he laughed until he finally sputtered out the secret to her dilemma————the mower was ELECTRIC.

Somehow, armed with that bit of knowledge, wifey managed to get the lawn mowed while Handsome finished the indoor chores. Few words passed between them the rest of the day!

The moral of the story: the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence, ……or behind the mower!

From the annals of “The Stupid Husband Stories”…….

One of my pals had married well and lived in a lovely house on a couple acres in a nearby neighborhood. As is common is suburbia, men who don’t know one end of a shovel from the other suddenly, finding themselves owning more square footage than a patio, become “landscapers extraordinaire“. This is a story about one such situation.

My girlfriend, Sugar, told me this tale one evening not too long after she and the hubby had parted ways permanently. We were having some goodies with our wine and talking about home maintenance issues we needed to address. The conversation quickly led to the discussion of men and their yards.

For years now I have marveled at the transformation of the male populace which occurs each year about the time Lowe’s begins to put out plant selections for spring. Actually, it happens in the fall too, but not on as large a scale.

One fine Spring day, Sugar’s ex decided that they had an erosion problem on the side yard. His solution was to put some low evergreen shrubs there. The entrance to their driveway was already planted with the same type shrubs. He, of course, went to Lowe’s to purchase more.

Upon returning, Hubby informed Sugar he was upset that the only shrubs available at Lowe’s were the one-gallon size. The ones at the driveway entrance were probably 20-gallon size at that point as they had been in place several years. She gently explained that the shrubs at the driveway entrance were originally the same size as the ones he had purchased. She assured him that in no time at all the new shrubs, once planted, would be as big and full as the driveway ones.

He was not satisfied. He promptly announced that he had decided while at Lowe’s selecting his one-gallon shrubs that he wanted the 20-gallons shrubs on the side yard. (He has also apparently concluded that the erosion problem was so great, the house might slide down the 2% grade———go figure.) His solution was simple. They would dig up the shrubs at the driveway entrance and move them to the side yard.

Now, here, I need to point out a few salient facts. First, there were about 8 of these shrubs and they were BIG. Second, Sugar is what she calls “vertically challenged” which means short to you and me. Hubby fully believed that she would have the ability to assist him in this little moving strategy.

So, Sugar tries to gather up the bush branches of a plant that is wider in diameter than she is tall—-quite a picture, as you can imagine—while hubby attempts to dig it up. Apparently, this particular evergreen shrub grows large and is excellent for erosion problems because the root systems underground are bigger than the plants above.

Hubby, at first, would not be dissuaded that his strategy might not be working so well. Sugar, scratched head to toe and covered with some very sticky sap, is trying to resist the homicidal urges Hubby evokes when he’s in his “I know what I’m doing” mode.

Fortunately, before the homicidal urges and hormone swings completely took control of her otherwise pleasant disposition, Sugar gently suggested once again that Hubby plant the small, newly purchased shrubs on the side yard and leave the #@$%^&* monster shrubs right where they were!

Instantly, Hubby sweating profusely, his face beet red and breathing so laboriously that Sugar suspects (maybe secretly hopes) he’s on the verge of a coronary, throws down the shovel and announces with great authority that he’s decided to plant the new small shrubs in the side yard since the one he’s been attacking for over an hour has “an excellent root system”. He has, after careful consideration, mind you, determined that the “excellent root systems” will ensure that they will have no erosion problems at the driveway entrance. Imagine that!

Sugar did manage to avoid killin’ him and I think her self-control is admirable. Fortunately, the divorce came in the nick of time—–just prior to peri-menopause. Good thing too, jailhouse orange just wouldn’t suit her at all! Ahhh—the things we women avoid in order to dress in good taste——horizontal strips, lycra pants, neon orange jumpsuits, KFC chicken, McDonald’s quarter pounders, full-size boxes of Whitman’s samplers——–you get the idea!

I thought, at one time, only someone who had survived divorce could appreciate story like this but I’ve since learned you don’t have to be divorced to “know” what I’m talking about.

To truly appreciate all that will follow, I have to tell you about some of my very bestest friends. They are lovely girls, and all have certain charming eccentricities as is common among Southern women. They are all bright and learned in various subjects, bless their hearts, the exception, of course, being their occasional choices in men. (Not that I have any room to brag!)

We have all been pals for many moons. Following the demise of our marriages to the fathers of our children, we found, when we compared notes, that they were very similar in some ways. We asked ourselves then and since what we ever saw in them but haven’t found any truly great answer. (What can seem absolutely brilliant at 20, is often known to be blatantly stupid at 40……………….but such is life!)

Now there were obvious differences between our erstwhile husbands, yet in some instances they seemed to be like “peas in the same pod”. They shared a particularly significant similarity. It was an unexplainable belief in the superiority of their intellect as it compared, in their minds, to ours, their wives and, often, the rest of you mere mortals. They didn’t quite grasp that we never saw them in the same “light” as they saw themselves, so to speak!

So, seeing as how they believed they were far smarter than we were, the following excerpts from the annals of our history with them, became fondly known to all of us as “The Stupid Husband Stories”.

(Please note here, dear readers, that these annals are far too numerous to be contained in one post, so I’ll have to tell you about them, one or two at a time. I hope you’ll bear with me! Most important, any seemingly unkind portrayal of any individual in these stories is unintentional, coincidental or a total figment of their imaginations! )

I’ll start with my favorite. “The Wash Out!”

A year or so after we bought our first home, the former husband and I, decided that it needed to be painted. We did all the things you do when you start a home project like that and on the next weekend began painting. About half-way through the first day, my ex was setting up to paint the stairwell which had a landing halfway-up. He set up a chair or step ladder and opened a new can of paint. A few minutes later, I was drawn from the wall I was painting by the sounds of a crash and much cursing.

There on the floor of the landing was the entire gallon of antique white paint creating a lovely lake in the middle of the dark beige carpeting. He thoughtfully began trying to scrape up the paint with his hands and put it back in the can. After a short discussion, it was agreed that I would go to the nearest retail establishment which rented carpet cleaners, get one and return to clean up the spill. I raced off to the store believing the situation at home was under control for the moment.

I returned promptly, dragging the cleaner and all it’s various parts and supplies into the house, and heard the sound of water splashing. Imagine my angst as I turned the corner and viewed the stairway landing only to see “the smart one” pouring water from a a mop bucket right on to the carpet. Once I recovered from the shock and regained my voice, I asked just what in the &*#$@ he thought he was doing?

His response, to this day, shocks and amazes anyone whom I regale with this tale: He said he was pouring the water directly onto the carpet and had been since I left the house. He had decided that he could just wash the paint all the way through the carpet and sub-flooring. With enough water, the paint would be flushed all the way through and run through the crawl space and wash out from under the house. He told me, if I didn’t believe it would wash all the way out, I could go look for myself. We lived on a fairly high slope above a golf course fairway at the time, I ran out on the deck in the back of the house and looked down.

Sure enough, there was a river of milky white water running out from underneath the house down toward the fairway. In addition to the fact that I’m certain the local golf club members were not amused, I asked him if he realized soaking the carpet and sub-flooring enough to get the paint to wash through created a significant risk of permanent damage to the sub-flooring which could be hazardous. Apparently, this thought hadn’t crossed his brilliant mind while he was planning his little “wash out”.

Will wonders ever cease…………………although the creak in the floor boards became somewhat worse and the sub-flooring did experience minor damage, it, thankfully, did not require replacement, but, according to my contractor friends………it was a small miracle.

Next entry: “Landscaping 101″