Rowr.

Since returning from my trip east, I’ve been thrashing in the quicksand of home improvement projects. I think I decided to do one simple thing, like paint the guest bathroom ceiling or something, but who can remember. You know how it is. I can’t do that until I rip out the light fixture, and while the electrician’s here, I should have him help me take out the old security alarm box, and as long as I’ve got the spackle out, I should fix those spots where the curtain hardware used to be, and as long as the ladder’s out, there’s that place where the paint went on kind of thin up by the bedroom ceiling, and the smoke detector could use replacing …

In No. 6, this is my domain. Steve called me once while I was away to ask where he could find a screwdriver. “Why do you want one of those?” I asked. Turns out, he needed to open the back of my computer to add ram (whatever THAT is). Anyway, it’s an arrangement that works out for everyone, I think. I operate the electric sanders, and Stevel makes sure I can print from just about any device short of the hair-dryer. This week, Stevel has gotten somewhat involved, however, out of an (in my opinion) amplified concern for my safety. Questions/statements have included the following:

“I really don’t think you should mess around with stripping stuff in enclosed spaces.”

“An electric sander? Did you buy some of those face masks? You can’t be breathing that stuff.”

“You need at least one more fan in here if you’re going to be stripping paint. Seriously, you shouldn’t mess around with it. This is how people have kids with extra heads.”

“I know the electrician said this is something you could do yourself, but if anyone’s going to get electrocuted, it’s going to be you.”

“I mean I REALLY think you shouldn’t mess around with this stripping stuff.” [Holds up can of stripping goop in front of the general area of my ovaries and raises eyebrows.]

Mind you, these aren’t even the endeavors I consider risky, like the time I decided to move the sleeper couch down our narrow stairwell myself ([sproing!] six hours later, I had finally unwedged it—and myself) or the many times I’ve stacked things on top of other things to reach something high up and teetered … teetered … whew. But it feels good to know Stevel is looking out for me (and our future family) … and that he’s around if I need to be rushed to the ER.