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You've heard all those Murphy's Laws. I've decided they could write another volume and call them Melvin's Laws. If there's one thing you can count on, it's Mel's ability to create chaos out of calm and make a monumental mess of things if given half a chance! He's very efficient at multiplying molehills into mountains the size of Pike's Peak.
My husband thinks I'm too hard on him. Before you start sympathizing with him, read the rest of my story. Mel's one of those rosy scenario people. He takes all kinds of risks, never factoring in the consequences if something goes wrong.
That's why I was a nervous wreck over the past month as contractors were in and out of our house doing renovations (some days I wasn't sure if they had done the remodeling or if Hurricane Mel had made landfall). The scary thing was the mirrors were all down, and leaning here and there. I scrawled big messages on paper—"WATCH OUT!" "FRAGILE," and "YOU BREAK, YOU DIE!" and taped to the mirrors.
"Ah ain't about to break yore mirrors. If they ain't already shattered all to pieces from th' reflection of mah ugly mug, they ain't gonna break," he assured me, then muttered, "Don't know whah you say Ah'm accident prone. 'At rap's undeserved."
I held my breath when Mel insisted on helping me move lamps, vases, and pictures so the carpet installers could come in and rip out the old and put down the new. I would run around behind him and reposition things he'd leave perched on the edge of a precipice, or stacked too high.
To my great relief, we made it through all the renovations without a single catastrophe. The new carpet in the den was last, and the furniture was put back into place. I heard Mel rummaging around in the kitchen. He emerged with leftover fried chicken and his stainless 16 oz. mug filled to overflowing with Dr Pepper.
I said, "Maybe we should eat at the breakfast table. I'd hate to get chicken crumbs on the carpet."
"Ah'll be careful," Mel replied, plopping down in his swivel rocker. I heard him shriek, "BRANG ME SOME RAGS, I SPILT MAH DR PEPPER!"
"Melvin Ross, the reason we had to change the carpet is because of stains around your chair! The carpet's been down less than two hours, and you've already ruined it!" I howled.
The worst was yet to come. Mel turned the chair on its side, and Dr Pepper ran all into the chair's metal works and grease began dripping on the carpet. Mel turned and wiped the chair's wooden platform, all the while grinding the black oil deep into my new light colored carpet. I was heartbroken. We worked on the stain to no avail, although Mel insisted the dingy stain that loomed three inches wide and 12 inches long was "gone."
I called the carpet store the next day. They sent out a guy who promptly removed the stain. It did a great job, and Mel was somewhat off the hook.
"Wonder what kind of chemical they used on it?" I asked.
"Don't know," Mel said, "but we shore cudda used some o' that the tahm Ah wuz tunin' up mah Evinrude thur on the livin'room floor an' 'at oil can mysteriously turned over."
