After doing some work on our house, I’ve learned that I’m a glorified Project Manager who, as they often say in the corporate world, is not set up for success.

Upon moving into our neighborhood I noticed that some lawns looked like most lush grass carpets from Elysium or Xanadu: deep thick green, no weed, perfect edges.

There are two such lawn carpets across the street, sources of aspiration and jealousy.

The lawn became my mission—I would do what it took to get one of those lawn carpets and my wife’s role would be to confirm “yes, the lawn looks gorgeous.”

I did my research. I was told to get a lawn carpet, you have to pay for a service. You can’t DIY it. It’s a monthly maintenance and care thing. I engaged a company called Hillside Lawn, endorsed on my local sports radio show. I agreed to a $67 a month plan.

This monthly fee was immortalized in our budget sheet specifically under my name which showed that this was my project.

Oddly, my wife still kept a watchful eye, like a King staring out of his castle window atop a mountain. The first few visits from Hillside were fine, but it all came to a head one day when I was out. I alerted my wife that Hillside was coming by to do a lawn fertilizing.

When I got home, she let me know her thoughts.

“So. Your lawn guy was here today.”

I immediately picked up that this sentence had changed from “the lawn guys” to now being my one paltry lawn guy. Of course my wife’s ensuing criticism would be completely legitimate considering her deep understanding of lawn fertilization, aeration and treatment.

“OK?”

“Well it’s just… He showed up in a little car, jumped out and sprinkled some stuff on the lawn and left in fifteen minutes. I would have expected more than that. That’s a good gig– $67 for 15 minutes of work. I wish I could do that,” she quipped.

Apparently, from her throne atop the mountain, my wife expected a cavalry of trailers and trucks, power tools, and an army of workers fertilize our 90 square foot lawn. Her harping on price made no sense as the $67 a month was a part of a full package price.

After that, every weed, dead blade of grass, missed communication from Hillside was nit picked by my wife until I gave up on Hillside. But it was too late—to my wife, my name and Hillside’s were tied together in a knot of ineptness.

As the guy who procures services, I’m expected to do research, vet and negotiate pricing. My wife has the cushy job of criticizing and/or approving all services.

Because this is an old house with crazy angles and quirks, no project is straight forward.

Our back fence runs past the garage creating a mini fence between the garage and the neighbor’s house.

“You have these little stone steps here. Do you want a door in this portion of the fence,” the fence guy asked.

“Well. Hmm.” It was not a decision I could make without approval. “Let me see what she wants.”

By the time the fence was done, the fence guy and I were full on deferring to my wife.

“So she will like that.”

“This is how she will want it.”

By the time I engaged with the garage guy, we already knew the deal: share what is told by my wife for the project.

“She wants the decorative hinges on the door. She wants windows,” I reported dutifully. The garage guy obliged as well referring to “her” or “she” as the decision maker we were both trying to please.

“She will be happy with the quieter motor,  right?”

She rarely gives instruction that covers all bases. She’ll think about decorative hinges and windows, but not motors. But if I make the wrong decision on the motor, I’m in trouble.

The tile guy has definitely been through it.

He hit an unplanned edge and wanted to know how to proceed. As my wife was working in her office, he asked me what to do after going through options.

I stood there looking clueless and dazed, embarrassed that the project had ground to a temporary halt.

“Why don’t you go ask her,” he encouraged.

I find myself protecting my workers because if they mess up, then I’m on the front lines as the person who picked that person who messed it up. Usually, I catch guys doing something she won’t like and try to reverse it.

I was recently thrust in the middle of a situation when my wife discovered chips in some of the tiles that were recently installed in our foyer.

“Did you notice these chips?”

“No,” I lied. I had noticed but mistakenly figured they wouldn’t be noticed.

“Did it happen when the tiles were being laid? Who did this?”

After considering all perpetrators: the cats, the tile guy and me, I managed to convince her to free all from blame and move on. But of course, every time she looks at those chips, I’m sure she’s blaming me in her head.