I am beginning to wonder, if in the quest to finish our new dining room table, I am going to end up with a husband who we will nickname stumpy, or lefty or some other moniker that describes someone missing pieces of their body. Although beautiful and exotic, jatoba (brazilian cherry) shares the properties of, oh, say, CONCRETE! Depending on which resource you frequent, it is estimated to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 125% harder than oak. What this means to us:

While installing the underlayment of plywood to the bracing he broke (yes, broke) 9 screws – the screws he described as his “biggest most mac-daddy suckers.” Now, I’m no wood worker, but when you describe something as ‘mac-daddy’, I get the impression it is not exactly on par with the wood screws that I have in my Do-It-Herself toolkit.

Don’t even get me going on the hand-to-hand combat that was required in order to get the router and the surface planks to play nice together. I keep having these visions of those old boxing cartoons where the big Ukranian stands with chest puffed out and hands on hips while the little guy pummels away fruitlessly. Steve & router=little guy; Big Ukranian=table

Steve has assured me, from the very beginning of this project, that the table will be light enough for two people to carry, and would be built such that we will be able to move it both into and out of the dining room. When, today, he began talking about building a mechanism that will allow him to move the tabletop around while he is working on it, I became increasingly concerned that my requests were not going to be honored. The joke has already been raised that it is unclear if we would be crushed by it or saved by it if we were to hide under it during an earthquake.

So, next up is renting an air compressor and nailgun (no, he was not able to talk me into buying one for this project). Being that he is using wood floor plank as the tabletop surface, he decided to quiz the folks at the lumber yard as to their experience with installing the flooring. In their expert opinion, it is *to be expected* that 1 in every 5 nails will probably not penetrate the wood. I have one word for you: explosives.

For any of you who are wondering, yes, we have insurance.

Yesterday was what one might call a defining moment. It was sort of a culmination of the previous few days wherein Steve was not his usual self, and me – being the ultimate in sensitivity and tact – told him so on numerous occasions.

There was the utterly odd and indescribable meltdown he had about the ice cream on Sunday night, where he actually threw up his hands and stormed from the room in what I can only assume was real, true anger (having seen it so few times, it is difficult to properly assess) over the you-take-it-no-you-take-it last bowl of ice cream.

From there, it was just one strange interaction after another. He had, oddly, turned into one of those people who take everything so literally that they can’t process humor. I would say something contrary, ironic or exaggerated and he would look at me like I was from another planet. Eventually, I decided that I needed to get more direct.

Me: “So, should we go looking for it?”

Steve: “Looking for what?”

Me: “Your sense of humor. You seem to have dropped it on your way home from Andrea and Brian’s last weekend. I just hope it didn’t fall out near our neighborhood, because someone has probably already pawned it for drug money.”

Steve: Blank stare.

Not one to let something lie, I tried again later.

Me: “Well, Austin, it looks like someone stole your humor mojo. Maybe we should get Fat Bastard to steal it back.”

Steve: Blank stare.

Me: “Come on man, throw me a boaaannnn.”

Let this be your lesson as to what it is like to be married to someone like myself, and how Steve has earned sainthood in his willingness to not only be married to me, but to actually *stay* married to me.

So on and on it went. Me reminding him that he wasn’t on his A-game, and him continuing to reside on planet humorless. Then suddenly, it all came to a head over a couple of skewers of shrimp and a pot of brown rice. I was hanging out in the living room with Stella when I hear him come storming in the back door, and in an infinitely disgusted voice blurt out “this is crap, I’m throwing it away.” I peek into the kitchen to see all of the bbq fare sitting on the kitchen counter, and Steve standing in one of those postures that reminded me of someone on the edge.

Me: “Stella, we are going to the brewery do you want french fries?”

Stella: “Booooey! Booooey!”

Me: “We are going to the brewery. How much money do we have invested in this meal?”

Steve: “Ten bucks”

Me: “Good. Throw it away.”

And with that, we packed up, headed to the brewery, ate wings and drank beer. Steve got his mojo back. Stella got to eat more mini corndogs in one night than she has over her entire life, and everyone lived happily ever after.

The end.