The Fix Is In

Hmm. What's happening here? Looks like another hubby-related fix-it project, the first project he personally inflicted on the SJG Palatial Estate -- sorry, second such project; I forgot about that time he decided to attach the bookshelf in my office to the wall and hit a pipe. (All the other projects, he tells me, have been acts of God.) So. After Sunday's scary tumble off the ladder in the powder room, where no one ever powders anything, I can assure you, and denting the wall, turning it into a statement of "oy vey, that must've hurt," my aging, manly spouse has entered Phase Two. Phase One had something to do with drywall, please don't ask me to be more specific. Phase Two involves something called Orange Peel. "You're making the bathroom smell all citrusy and fresh? I approve." "No," he told me, semi-patiently. "I'm giving the wall texture." "What good is a wall without texture?" I asked. It was rhetorical. I didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. Unless you count this: "I'm going upstairs to shred stuff while it dries." With that, he hobbled up the stairs. He's sore in places. Very sore. You should see the giant purple bruise on his bum. On second thought, you don't need to see it. I've seen it more than once and trust me, it isn't pretty. But hey, if you can't show your giant bruises to your beloved, if you're not oversharing the good, the bad and the ugly after 39 years, what sort of relationship is it, anyway? Later on today, in what I'll call Phase Three, because I can't think of a better name, he'll paint over the wounded wall, and probably wind up painting the entire room, even though he promises me he won't have to, which guarantees he will. Meanwhile, I plan to be out of the house. Like I said, it's been 39 years. I know my customers.