A Woman’s Perogative

The average size for a home in the U.S., as of 2009, was 2700 square feet. Our little casa, at 1200, is a mite shy of average. It, along with a half dozen other houses in the neighborhood, was a builder’s concession to the notion of “affordable housing.”

As home for two humans and one large dog, Casa de Kirby doesn’t need to be a McMansion. Any issues with space are the result of a tendency toward packrat-ism that could easily be cured by a trip to the dump.

One exception. The dining room. Or the lack thereof. Events like Christmas dinner take place in a tiny corner of our tinier kitchen. When everyone is seated, getting stuff out of the fridge requires a hybrid game of Twister and Musical Chairs.

The attached garage, like everything else in our house, is nano-sized. You’d be hard pressed to get a clown car in this garage. The plan, once the detached garage/workshop got built, was to convert the garage into the dining room. Because we at Casa de Kirby are, as our house suggests, rather low income, hiring a contractor to do the construction was out of the question. With the exception of the concrete slab and tape and texturing, we have done all the work.

My husband, who took and passed the electrical test in order to wire the shop, handled the wiring in the dining room. (With a little help from his dad.) All was going well, until we got to the matter of the center light fixture.

This is the desert. It gets hot. Like hell. So we thought it would be wise to install an electrical box that could hold a ceiling fan, if need be. Done. Of course, a fan didn’t conform to my idea of the right lighting for my formal dining room. So I said, “Screw it. It’s only scorching hot, what, two months out of the year? I want a nice light.”

So after much agonizing–you’d think we were adopting a child–I settled on a light fixture. As soon as we brought it home, I started nagging. “Install my light!” Installing light fixtures is easy, right? Partway through the process, after we’ve assembled most of the light, my husband realizes that the super-strong box, built to hold a heavy fan, won’t work with this light.

Me, I’m staring at my pretty new light. “Well, we can get a fan,” I say, trying to be cheerful, but thinking, “YUCK!” Plus, returning the light means disassembling it and trying to get it back in the box. (I’d rather eat glass.)

As the photo suggests, my hero, once again came through and saved the day. It’s a good thing we are metal workers, and have tools on hand for modifying certain components. But the installation wasn’t “easy.”

After the dust has settled, I say, “I changed my mind. I want a ceiling fan.”

The look my beloved gives me could turn Medusa to stone.
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The photo is focused on the light and ceiling because the wood flooring hasn’t been installed and the room is filled with construction junk–paint cans, ladders, cabinets (to be installed), etc. Also, the greyhound has repeatedly knocked over one of the house plants and there’s potting soil all over the floor. Home improvement…?