Home Renovation (Guns Optional)

For the past few weeks my house has been a construction zone. We’re not talking about a “moved furniture to paint the wall” situation, but a full-fledged, air-compressing, belt-sanding jobsite. My brother-in-law, Jay, came down from Waco to help my husband completely gut and remodel the front office. Please do not skim that last line—yes, I said Waco. My husband accuses me of being the most judgmental non-judgmental person he’s ever met, but I’m sorry, if you can’t see the town of Waco as being pertinent to this or any other story, you must be from Longview.

Jay is a nice enough fellow, but let’s just say that not even with bifocals and Lasik surgery will we ever see eye to eye. He’s the NRA, to my NOW; the venison stew to my tofu stir-fry. I think it would be accurate to call him a good ol’ boy.

Jay is a hunter. A cross between weapons depot and meat processing plant, his house is more Guns & Ammo than Better Homes & Gardens. When not killing woodland creatures, Jay likes cooking and eating them. Equal parts Betty Crocker and Ted Nugent, Jay seems to be an expert on everything from growing an herb garden to field dressing a buck. Evenings are spent on the couch in a comical remote control battle between Top Shot and Top Chef.

To give you a little perspective, I was raised in a Jewish home with a large extended family on both coasts. My husband’s side of the family is pretty much all Texan (also Catholic and Syrian, but that’s another story). Suffice it to say our backgrounds are not even remotely similar. The only hunting my family does is for the takeout menu in the junk drawer. I’ve never killed my own food—just my parents’ hopes and dreams.

To Jay’s credit, it only took one little chat after I picked up a can of spit from his chewing tobacco for him to learn the first rule of Casa Weenie. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think it’s generally safe for house guests to assume that all bodily fluids should be kept outside the living room.

For someone who spends every waking moment either cleaning guns or killing things, Jay sure bonded with our toy poodle, Dexter. This odd couple both charmed and frightened me. More feral cat than lapdog, Dexter is suspicious of everything—particularly strangers—of which Jay was surely one of the strangest. The image of Dexter curled up in a sweet little ball while Jay sharpened knives beside him seemed like excellent fodder for a quirky sitcom. Or perhaps a slasher film.

So for a week and a half, I was more or less banished to the back of the house with the din of demolition ringing in my ears. I broke out in a cold sweat when Jay returned home to Waco last week. There is still a shop vac in the living room and a filing cabinet by the kitchen table. I keep expecting Fred Sanford to walk through the door at any moment.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the good news is that Jay is returning to Austin soon to pick up where he and Mr. Weenie left off. Meanwhile, I’m washing the sheets for the couch, clearing off the knife sharpening table and investing in a brand new tin of Skoal.