Well there be lots going on in the Ruth2Day household at the moment. We’ve had the damp fixed, we’ve almost completely painted the interior, we’ve even had some cooking done in the kitchen – have I told you how apt I am with a packet of mince and a wooden spoon? I tell you life is looking good!
Admittedly it’s not been all happiness and goodwill. Nope, not at all. In fact I’d go as far as to say we’ve come mighty close to some serious blood-letting. Hubby’s that is, not mine, the perfectly delightful woman that I am 🙂
It’s the dust that goads me people. The grey particles. The bane of my life. The stuff that gets in between your toes, that reaches your knickers leaving you to itch, the sort of itch that would have you screw your nose and bop on the spot.
It’s everywhere. And I mean everywhere. And does hubby think to cover things when he reaches for his sander? His gunfight at the OK Carroll pose taken, hammer and screwdriver in opposite pockets, revving his tool, his brow beading as sander touches wall, spitting particles of dust into yonder? No. No. Simply put, no. Nope, nooooo he doesn’t. Instead he grins like a three year old as my glare takes on monumental passion, my finger tips having left paths in acres of dust as far afield as rooms he hadn’t even been near.
“What?” he says, fluttering his eyes, dust rolling down his cheeks. Yes, you boys do that to! “I can’t see anything.”
“No, darling,” I say, my right hand hovering around his screwdriver. “How about putting on your specs then?”
Of course maintenance isn’t just about dust, it’s about tools too. And many men, I would suspect, will consider themselves incomplete without a man-sized toolbox at their side, chunky and slightly battered from holding up the beer fridge on Rugby days. Not to mention the umpteen shelves of half-filled jars of screws, bolts and dust, and in hubby’s case his personal favourite of mangled paint brushes submerged for decades in turps. I’ve not tried this myself, but I’m suspecting that once lit and burning, these little gems will ignite the braai . . . for the next month . . . for the whole street.
Around about maintenance time we seem to suffer the lose of kitchen utensils too, mostly knives that is. Take this past weekend for example. I purchased a nifty knife sharpener. It’s great, got a suction pad and very portable. I’m thinking about those days when sharpening is needed but you’d much prefer to be in the pool. No problem with this little gadget lovely ladies. Picture it. There you are, floating on the lilo, sharpener suctioned to the chopping board you’ve balanced on your chest. Feeling rather parched you have a Martini in one hand, blunt knife in the other. I mean how clever is that? Talk about multi-task!
Sorry the lilo and the Martini overtook my track of thought there. Yes, missing knives. Despite hubby’s very full toolbox and gadget full shed, he seems to find much joy in smuggling out my knives to cut tape, saw through plastic tubing, and if he’s lucky enough to get away with it, do some pruning as he makes his way towards the waiting tube. And isn’t that exactly what he did this weekend. Yes, he did. There I found him, on his hands and knees, picking flecks of paint from the skirting with my very nicely, newly sharpened knife.
“What are you doing,” I roared, feet apart, hands in the air.
He shrugs, continuing to scrape. “I thought your nice sharp knife would do the trick.”
Trick! I’ll give him a trick. Head in Hoover bag here we come!