We hosted my mother's family reunion at our house on Sunday afternoon. The husband and I are party-throwing pros -- you get used to hosting a lot of parties when you have acres of land and a swimming pool. Frankly, we enjoy sharing our little piece of paradise with others. And, to be honest with you, I had ulterior motives when I offered to host this year's shin-dig: It gave me the perfect excuse to get some stuff done around the house (or rather to nag the husband into getting some stuff done around the house).

One of his jobs "to get ready for the reunion" was to replace our main bathroom toilet. Though we've known we were hosting this reunion since...oh, last July...my husband waited until the Thursday before the reunion to replace the toilet (and, actually...that's not too bad. I expected him to wait until the day before). Our old throne had become a three-flush toilet and that just wasn't going to work with our well water and 50 people flushing thrice every time they visited the commode.

So, off the husband goes to a local big-box hardware store to buy a toilet. First, he calls to ask me what I wanted. "Uh...something that flushes and has a lid that closes...that's pretty much it, dear. I'm not real potty-picky."

He says it will cost a $100 and take 1 hour. I immediately triple that -- applying the Cass Home Improvement Principle (total cost and time = estimated time and cost multiplied by 3).

When I got home from work on Thursday I could tell when I pulled in the driveway and saw him stomping out to his tool bench in the garage that something went wrong with the potty installation. I prayed it wasn't a rotten floor that meant ripping out and replacing.

Turns out it was a defective toilet -- it didn't flush right. The husband had to take it all apart and take it back to the store.

Home he comes with another toilet. "Now I've got a good one. This is what I'm talking about -- an American made toilet."

A 1/2 hour later, I hear him laughing. He had removed the tank cover and the inside was stamped with "Made in Mexico by American Standard." He said "Oh, whatever...it flushes...look at that (flush), nice strong flush."

Few minutes later I'm doing dishes in the kitchen and I hear him swearing (which is highly unusual for my mild-mannered husband). "Come in here," he says to me. "You have to see this."

"I don't think I want to."

"No, c'mere, really."

The toilet seat holes were drilled incorrectly so the seat sat cockeyed on the top off the bowl. Not mildly cockeyed, but four inches cockeyed.

I just started laughing.

He pulled that toilet out, too. Took it back to the store the next day and got toilet No. 3.

... which cost about $100 and took him about an hour to install.

Of course, there were those previous two..so, once again, the Cass Home Improvement Principle holds true.

We put a second floor on our (former) ranch house....oh....5 years ago now. And, since the day they dug the footer there has been a pile of rocks and dirt sitting in my front yard where the backhoe dropped it.

I eyed that pile of dirt when we were done with the major construction and gave my husband my trademark sideways glance and said, "so, what are you doing with that? You're moving that right? Because I don't want that sitting in the yard for a year. I know how you are about the details..."

He responded with his trademark eye roll and an audible sigh (and one hand up in a "stop" gesture) and said "Don't worry about it. It will be gone. I will take care of it. Seriously. Soon. Don't worry about it."

I took a silent vow not to nag about it and to see how long it would go before he "took care of it."

5 years.

FIVE YEARS.

Over the years, weeds grew over the pile and a shumac tree took root. The dirt pile had become the topic of conversation among the neighbors who were well aware of my annoyance about "the pile" and never missed an opportunity to ride Dan about it, thereby doing my dirty work (nagging by proxy).

At Christmastime, the shumac tree had twinkling lights strung on it. Dan thought I did it to mock him. I thought he did it to irritate me. We found out later it was a friend of Dan's from work (a guy who was also privy to the ongoing dirt-pile war in our house) stoking the fire.

On a Monday, two weeks ago, the girls and I came up from a walk in the creek out back to find the pile gone and the backhoe guy smoothing out our new front lawn. It took backhoe Bob about two full days of work to even out the land, tear up the weeds that had taken over, plant new seed and lay down straw.

And, then, we were blessed with last week -- a week filled with daily rain and sunshine -- perfect for growing grass. I figure it's my reward for biting my tongue (mostly) for five years. Perhaps it's Dan's reward for finally getting the job done.

Regardless, the grass is growing up now and, if you look at the lawn sideways you can see whole patches of grass poking up from under the straw. It's just a matter of time before it takes over and we have the lush, green lawn I've been dreaming of for five years now.

When Dan saw the first blades of grass coming up, he rushed me outside to look at them. As we admired our little lawn-to-be, I gave him my trademark sideways glance and said, "you know a nice lawn like this requires maintenance..."

He responded with his trademark eye roll and an audible sigh (and one hand up in a "stop" gesture) and said "Don't worry about it. I will take care of it. Seriously. Don't worry about it."

Now where have I heard that before?

I've told you that the husband and I have embarked on a new home improvement project renovating the back half of our house and building the master bedroom suite of our dreams.

Unfortunately, I was born with absolutely no aptitude or interest in home interior design.

I realize that most women love home interior design and fussing with curtains and bath fixtures and finding just the right things with just the right look for the rooms in their home. I know lots of women who pore over the latest issue of House Beautiful and Country Home and they have their dream kitchen already completely planned out in their head.

I'm not one of them.

I get a headache just thinking about it.

I'm getting a headache now just writing about it.

Dan kept warning me that we needed to go pick out the shower and tub and sinks so he could keep moving on the project. I ignored him as long as I could.

This weekend, he actually got a sitter (yes, he did) so we could go to the home improvement stores.