KAREN WIGHT -- No Place Like Home

I know there are a few women out there that consult their husbands on

the design of their home. I just don’t happen to be one of them. Not that

I’m a total control freak, really I’m not. But my husband could care less

and that is a truthful statement.

In fact, I think he’d be just as happy if we had stayed in our first

home instead of the house-hopping we have done for the past 18 years.

Sure, we’d have to stack the kids one on top of the other, there would be

no place to move, much less think, but hey, someday the kids will grow up

and leave -- yeah, in about 20 years -- and who needs extra space anyway?

On top of that great stream of reasoning, add to the mixture that he

is colorblind, a complete lefty who installs knobs to open the “wrong”

way -- at least in a house full of righties -- and now you know why he

isn’t consulted on most design decisions.

Except for the garage.

The garage is a bastion of male energy. The only I thing I care about

is the extra fridge to keep the overflow of drinks cold. The rest is for

hubbie.

We have tools of all kinds, coolers of all sizes. Tents, sleeping

bags, major beach paraphernalia, sports equipment to fill a Big 5, enough

Christmas lights to send school districts all over America into a seizure

and hardware in the big medium and small varieties. There are boxes of

receipts, back taxes to choke Uncle Sam and white elephants left over

from dead relatives. Oh yeah, we also have paint cans, lots of them,

filled with noxious colors.

I don’t argue with the placement of anything, as long as it has place.

I drive up and down the street and peruse the neighbors’ garages. So far,

my neighbor Dick wins the award for the best garage. It may be cleaner

than my kitchen on any given day. This is a man after my heart.

It took a long time to convince my husband that we needed a lot of

built-in cabinets for the garage. This would actually make his domain

more enjoyable. Give him a place to display manly tools, organize manly

nails, and have his own manly television to watch manly sports events.

He could hang his stuffed fish in this testosterone palace. He could

have a swivel chair at the workbench. Oh, baby.

So my man has his own domain. And as long as I don’t have to look at

it, step over it or otherwise be bothered by his collection of important

gizmos, he can do with them what he wants.

My guy is master of his own destiny, supreme commander of his

surroundings, king of his castle. And, hey, don’t forget to take your

shoes off when you come in the house.

* KAREN WIGHT is a Newport Beach resident. Her column runs Sundays.