Skye and I want to rip out the Berber carpet that we had installed in the basement years ago when my mother-in-law briefly lived in what is now the mancave. We want to replace it — the carpet, not the mother-in-law (Hi, Shirley! *waves at mother-in-law* You are irreplaceable!) — with the tile we have leftover from the home improvement project we still refer to as the DIY that almost dissolved our marriage.
Skye: “I thought you knew what you were doing!”
Me: “I thought you knew what you were doing!”
Skye: “Well you sounded like you knew how to grout!”
Me: “That’s just the way I sound! I don’t know anything!”
Skye: “Well you act like you know everything!”
Me: “I thought I told you the first week we met! I am ATNA!” (All talk no action.)
Skye: “You did. But if you don’t act now and help me scrub the grout off of this tile this is going to look like ass!”
Those might not be the exact words. But just imagine it all being said through gritted teeth while the veins in our necks look like night crawlers.
The kids felt bad about our necks and helped us scrub the surprisingly quick...[please continue reading by clicking on the link]