A Wrecked Tile Dysfunction - by Douglas

My wife and I have been picking out tile for our kitchen for about five years now. This is how large purchases (anything over $20) go in our family. If it were up to me, we’d be flat broke and tripping over our expensive and mismatched material goods. If it were up to the missus, we’d position our sleeping boxes as near as possible to a bus stop so we could get a ride to the vacant lot where our vats of money were buried. We’re sort of Jack Spratty like that but we make it work. However, at long last, I think I can say with some certainty that there is a half-decent possibility that we might get our kitchen tiled next week. No, I’m serious this time.

First of all, after a grueling search that has caused many tile peddlers to dive, trembling uncontrollably, behind their laminate flooring displays at the site of us walking through the door, we have found the perfect tile. This miracle tile has the same colors as our counter tops while still matching our cabinets and appliances. Second, a representative of a local flooring company has come out and measured the room and provided us with a quote. Third, my wife has pulled up all the despised linoleum in the kitchen, quite possibly with her teeth. None of those facts alone would tilt the odds beyond 50/50 but combined together we’re up to at least 60/40.

Now, true to form, there are a couple of reasons to believe that we will spend the foreseeable future preparing our meals on a tileless bare slab. The tile must know that history is not on its side. For instance, we spent two years buying our entertainment center which then sat unfinished in our garage for several more months while we shopped for the perfect wood stain. I feel certain that my corpse will remain a prominent fixture in the office of some unwitting embalmer for at least a year while my wife finds a coffin that is tastefully fashioned yet understated without being too gloomy. Also battling against a finished floor is the fact that the tile quote, while perfectly reasonable, is still a lot of money. My initial reaction was to ask if they were covering our floor with black tar heroin or the foreskins of spitting cobras.

But, having looked before we leapt and caveat emptored ourselves to the satisfaction of even Hans Blix, we may just end up with a tiled floor yet. “Don’t worry,” I’ll say to our company who are concerned about my wife staring unblinkingly at the floor, “she isn’t having a petit mal seizure. She’s just imagining how the tile would look adjacent to the dishwasher.” That Mona Lisa hint of a smile speaks volumes, and I know she can’t wait to feel those tootsies on the new floor. Although I did notice that the linoleum, while brimming over the top of one of our garbage cans, is still in large enough strips to glue back down, if need be. After 18 years of marriage, I’m convinced that was not an accident.