The Original Craftsman

On Saturday I woke-up in the grumps.
"Look," said Chup whose very definition of ENEMY is Wife in Bad Mood "what do we need to do to get you happy?"
"Hmmm." Good question. I thought about it.
Why was I in a bad mood in the first place? It was embarrassing. The day before I had done the Utah Valley Parade of Homes with my mother and her VIP pass. Only, I couldn't stand the first house because I wanted it to be a "restoration project" of a 1930s cape cod style home, instead it was a "remodeled" glorified bachelor pad. The second house was so terrifyingly tasteless and gaudy that I almost used the copper "bowl sink" to desert my distaste.
Why don't people get it?
I tried to explain this to Chup.
"You know when you see a movie that has awesome possibilities, a great script, loads of money but the actors ruin it with their mediocrity?" Chup nodded.
"That is how I see these homes. It's like everyone wants to have a craftsman home because it's so trendy right now, but they don't get craftsman. You can't have French Country Craftsman. Building homes is art, not money. And even if you want to have the biggest, most overwhelming house in the whole city it doesn't mean that I want to take a tour of it."
Before I could go on, Chup interrupted to ask me again.
"What do we need to do for you?"
Exhausted, I mentally posted a white flag.
"I need a fish taco."
Chup loaded me in the car and drove forty minutes north to Sugarhouse where I had not just a fish taco, but a Rubio's signature fish taco . . . my favorite.
After finishing off the last of a corn tortilla, Chup asked me how I felt.
"Better, only, can you take me on a drive so that I can see original houses? You know, wipe away all bitterness."
We drove up and down the bungalows of Sugarhouse, the original craftsman of Millcreek and over to the spectacular homes of Yale and Harvard. We spent the whole day researching and plotting. Going to open houses and comparing prices. Looking at neighborhoods where kids were actually outside playing on front lawns instead of holed up in some ridiculous "home theater". It was a trillion times more domestic than that lousy Parade of F-ing Homes.
I was feeling so refreshed that I asked Chup to drive me past the Energy Solutions Arena so I could see the pre-game going ons. However, as we drove by there were only a few people milling around . I took the opportunity anyway to yell out my car window, "Go Jazz! Go Jazz! Go Jazz!" to which nobody cared.
After some silence in our car I sheepishly asked Chup if he wished I hadn't done that.
"Do you wish that someone would've cared?" he asked me back.
I was laughing too hard to respond at the time.
But today I say this:
Dear Chup,
I could never wish for more caring in my life. You do it plenty.
Thanks for the fish taco. And the bungalows.
with all my heart,
c jane