My husband, Peter, and I have matching folding chairs.

Every Thursday evening this summer, we have attended the outdoor concert held in a local park. The music is usually good, but the food trucks are undeniably the center of the experience. Our favorite is the "Tot Boss" that sells tasty, hot tater tots out the window of the truck.

Peter and I bring our own chairs. We get comfortable in our folding chairs, eat our tater tots, listen to the music, and watch the people and dogs go by. It's hard to beat a night of outdoor music, tater tots, and people-watching.

The variety of folding chairs is remarkable.

There are low beach-type chairs that only lift the behind of the concertgoer a couple of inches off the ground, and there are exceptionally high chairs that look as if they are intended for use while casting a fishing line. There are the old-school webbed folding chairs, and there are tiny camping chairs, some of which snap together like umbrellas, and others that require at least an undergraduate degree in engineering to assemble. But, almost always, the chairs come in sets of two.

Each couple has somehow decided what sort of couple they are -- whether they are the "fancy floral print chairs" type, or the "20-year-old lawn chairs stashed in the garage" type. They all have somehow agreed that, yes, this is the kind of couple we are, and they show up every Thursday night, toting their matching chairs.

Of course, there are exceptions.

Couples who are not really couples yet do not have matching chairs. Even if you had two chairs on hand, it would be presumptuous to bring a matching chair on a first date. It would imply a level of commitment that might frighten off your prospective partner. This means that dating couples have to find park benches (which are not nearly as comfortable and are always in short supply) or sit on the ground, sometimes without even a blanket.

But among established couples, I occasionally see one that has not agreed upon their chair policy, and I do worry about them.

Last night there was a man who had decided on a comfortable-looking camping chair emblazoned with the logo of a popular sporting goods store. His partner had only a folding three-legged stool and, at first, she opted against even using that. She sat on the ground before reluctantly unfolding her chic little stool, looking thoroughly miserable. I felt pessimistic about their relationship. I hate to read too much into these things (but I will anyway) and say that this couple may have issues that extend beyond their ability to find matching chairs. Naturally, I hope I'm wrong.

Looking around, I wonder how all these couples found their way to their matching chairs. I'm betting there are as many stories as there are sets of chairs. I imagine most of these couples have one member with stronger opinions about folding chairs. In our marriage, Peter is that person. Peter will assure you that (unlike all the chairs of our neighboring concertgoers) our rather heavy folding chairs provide adequate back support, and Peter is all about a supported back. I'm happy with his selection. I'm just glad he didn't choose an uncomfortable little stool like that poor woman in front of me.

It delights me being surrounded by all these different sets of chairs filled with people eating tater tots. Peter suggested that, next week, we should bring matching cloth napkins. I think that might be a very nice touch.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

“I’m tired of living in exile!” my husband, Peter, exclaimed as, for the second day in a row, we packed up everything we would need to be out of our home long enough for the floor to dry.

Michael, the floor sander, is in our apartment now, buffing the penultimate coat of polyurethane while Peter is moaning about his exile status. We have evacuated to the party room in the condominium while we wait to have a floor we can walk on again. There is internet and a refrigerator in the party room, so we are rather pampered evacuees.

“The floors are almost finished,” I reassured him.

“But the remodeling isn’t!” he complained.

“The rest won’t be so disruptive.” Peter is not convinced.

The most urgent remaining issue is the bathroom, as the shower stall is warped and spills water onto the floor. Peter has fashioned a complicated solution involving a plastic shower curtain, a squeegee, and Gorilla Tape. It is not elegant.

But contractors are insanely busy these days, and no one is in more demand than plumbers. If you know a plumber, I suggest you cement your relationship with them immediately, as plumbers are the hottest new celebrities.

After a considerable hunt, we finally found a plumber named Matt. Like Cher or Adele, Matt uses only his first name, but on his business cards he adds a single initial for his last name -- like Kenny G.

When Matt arrived to survey our bathroom, he did not remind me of either Cher or Kenny G, but had a similar charisma. He was very tall and bald and fit and had the calming presence of someone who might start a New-Age movement. I think he easily could garner followers, although I suspect plumbing is more lucrative.

Matt arrived at our home and listened as we explained our mundane problem of having a 40-plus-year-old bathroom made of aging acrylic. He nodded compassionately as we told him more than he really needed to know about our hopes and dreams in the bathroom department.

“I have a philosophy,” Matt finally said, after we had told him all there was to tell. Right away, I knew we’d be paying a lot if we were getting both a plumber and a philosophy.

“I believe in keeping things simple,” Matt said, simply.

“Well, we understand you may run into problems you can’t anticipate ...” Peter began.

“No,” Matt said, holding up a hand and looking like the spiritual teacher I was beginning to suspect he was. “I will give you a price, and it will be the price. There will be no changes. There will be nothing added. I will do what needs to be done.”

If Peter had been wearing a blood pressure monitor, I know I would have seen the needle drop.

“He’s going to be expensive,” I warned Peter, after our plumbing guru left. Peter seemed unconcerned. When Matt’s bid came in, it was even higher than I had feared.

“I just don’t see that we have a choice,” Peter told me. “I believe Matt is the man for the job. We got a good price for our old house. I think it’s karma that we spend a little more with Matt now.”

My husband is not typically a person who is price insensitive, and he is certainly not someone who talks about karma, so now I don’t know what to think.

Matt will start work next week. I am expecting all sorts of changes to ensue. Some of them might even have to do with the plumbing.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

The renovations to our new home continue.

We didn’t expect to be refinishing the floor. But when we tore up the flooring that was buckling and warping in the summer humidity, we discovered the original parquet, spattered with paint, underneath.

A man named Michael showed up with the biggest floor sander I have ever seen, looked disapprovingly at the paint sprayed all over the parquet, and declared that it should sand clean without a problem. My husband, Peter, told Michael he was retired, and Michael told us he was retired as well.

“What did you used to do?” I asked.

“Sand floors!” he said, as if that was obvious.

“And now you sand floors in your retirement?”

“But only when I want to!” he clarified.

Michael was right, and the paint cleaned right up, revealing not oak floors, as we had thought, but an intricate pattern in teak. Michael didn’t finish sanding on Friday, but said he’d be back Monday morning.

“Don’t walk on it in bare feet!” Michael cautioned. “Your feet might have oil on them!”

I didn’t think I had particularly oily feet, but I was taking no chances and made sure I had slippers on every time I touched the beautiful raw wood floor. “Peter! You dropped a piece of popcorn!” I scolded, scurrying to retrieve the errant kernel.

(I tell you all this so that you will understand how dreadful I felt about what happened next.)

We like peanut butter that is made with peanuts and nothing else, but it separates, with the peanuts at the bottom and the oil at the top.

(You may think you can imagine what happens next, but it is even worse.)

I use one beater on my hand mixer to stir a new jar of peanut butter. But, when I did this on Saturday, the GFCI on the electrical outlet popped.

“Darn!” I said.

“Try another socket,” Peter said.

And so I did. What I did not do was turn off the mixer before plugging it in.

The jar spun madly out of control and, in a moment, there was peanut oil everywhere -- all over me, all over the countertop, all over the cupboards. But the only really important thing was that there was peanut oil and sloppy peanut butter all over the raw teak floor.

I didn’t move for a long moment, hoping what had just happened would somehow rewind and be undone.

“Quick! Get a towel!” Peter said, snapping me out of it.

I wiped it up, and I scrubbed it with detergent and hot water. Then I did it again. Then I did it one more time. I turned a fan on and let it dry all night. And in the morning ... it was every bit as bad as I feared it would be.

I tried to imagine what I could have done that could be worse. “Maybe India ink,” I thought. “India ink might be worse.” I was sick at heart.

“Have you ever hated any of your clients?” I asked Michael the next morning.

“What did you do?” he asked. I showed him.

“It won’t show, will it?” Peter asked. “The polyurethane will cover it, won’t it?” I waited for Michael to reassure us.

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “Guess we’ll find out.” And he fired up his sander.

A few minutes later he called out, “Come here!”

I ran to the kitchen. The oil was gone.

“I knew you could do it!” I said, although I had been anything but sure.

“Stay off the floor!” Michael yelled.

And I did.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS