I married an engineer.
You’re talking to a woman who doesn’t balance her checkbook, goes by the rule “good enough IS enough” and cooks by the seat of her pants. As my former boss knows all too well, the term “planning” is anathema to me. Risk assessment is a phrase I’ve never much dwelled on. Project management scares me silly and “measure twice, cut once” is a lesson I still haven’t learned.
Enter my wonderful husband, Doug.
He balances his checkbook to the penny, glories in the magic of spreadsheets, color codes his calendar and keeps emails longer than I’ve kept tax records.
I’ve learned a lot in the four short years we’ve been married.
For example: it’s “soil” not dirt; it’s “concrete” not cement; and it’s “fuel” not gas.
I’ve grown used to pillow-talk on Subsurface Utility Engineering, foundation design, reinforced concrete slab, erosion control BMP (best management practices), traffic control device spacing and signal timing.
Oooo, baby! Whisper it to me slowly!
When we read in bed, I’m absorbed in Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind books. Doug is knee deep in Reinforced Concrete Design.
We have baggies of “soil” all over the house and a jar of dirt and water measuring the separation of clay and sand. The official name is “Sediment Suspension Test” in case you were wondering. The jar sits among other decorative items on our fireplace mantle. While Doug observes sediment layers measured in centimeters, I see an image of snow covered sage bushes.
He’s planning a leach field for our future home and texts me love notes of holes in the ground with protruding measuring implements. Last year for Christmas I got him the Survey Linker Rod he asked for. I call it a BMS – Big Measuring Stick.
Our dinner conversations are all about perc tests and clay deposits.
The garage is now organized with every rake and shovel and broom in their own special spot. A tennis ball hangs to indicate the exact spot to park the car. Tools nest in drawers according to size and function.
When I hang a picture on the wall, it’s a hit or miss process. He’ll measure from stem to stern (he’s a Navy guy) to find the right place for the nail. I marvel at how he only needs one hole to do the job right.
Yet, I’m the fussy one when it comes to loading the dishwasher. I re-arrange to get maximum cleanliness. And God help anyone who puts plates in the wrong spot. I’m sensitive to water flow and soap dispersion, ya know.
Together we make a great pair. We poke fun at our quirks and find plenty to laugh about. I love his wit and sense of humor. He puts up with my penchant to collect books, boxes and old furniture.
I call him “Cookie Monster” ‘cause he sneaks out of bed at night to raid the pantry. He calls me “Blondie” although these days, it’s more a pet name than a fact.
We’re lucky we found each other. And he’s the best this Cabin Mama could have ever hoped for!
