So last night, The Brain went out to the garage to do some woodworking. He really, really likes woodworking. A LOT. And hey. I'm totally on board with the woodworking as a hobby thing. Mainly because it usually ends up with something I really like for the house.
Right now he's trying to finish a nightstand for my side of the bed. It's beautiful, and I have NO intention of getting in the way of progress.
Progress is slow, though. The disturbing pattern usually goes something like this:
- The Brain leaves the house with a happy face, ready for some downtime.
- I hear the garage-to-house door open and shut numerous times.
- Usually over a period of about an hour.
- On my way out to take him a cool drink ('cause I'm just like that...) I notice a new large pile of "stuff" on the washer.
- I rethink the whole going-out-to-take-a-drink thing.
- The situation in the garage is not as tense as I imagine. The drink usually helps.
- I get a look that is not complaining, but definitely asks "why? WHY? Why do you pile all your "stuff" on my workbench so that I have to clear it off before I can do anything?"
- Or maybe that's just my guilt's interpretation of the look. I don't know.
I actually try really hard to keep my stuff - or any stuff- off that table. Remember me? I'm the one who WANTS the nightstand finished.
So last night's little episode of "As the Lathe Turns" was MUCH shorter than usual. I would say at about 10 minutes we already had the pile on the washing machine. And I opened my mouth to say something, and then quickly closed it again.
Because what I was GOING to say was
"Wow! There must not have been nearly as much stuff as usual out there! Maybe tonight you'll really be able to get something done!"
Bad, bad idea. I'm only glad I caught it in time.