"Thank you for teaching us all that love is thicker than most bodily membranes. But not quite as sticky." - The Tick, The Tick

The Boy takes a snapshot of his favorite thing (besides food that comes in itsy-bitsy foil pouches) – home improvement projects.

I was in the kitchen when I saw The Mrs. pull up in the driveway, bringing The Boy home from soccer practice, Pugsley in tow.

She walked in. Took one look at me.

“What have you been doing?” Her voice was accusatory.

“Umm, nothing, really.”

“No. You’ve been, you’ve been . . . “

I waited for Joey Greco™, the host of Cheaters® to come popping out from around the corner.

“You’ve been fixing things again, haven’t you?” I wilted under her stare and nodded. “And, it’s probably something that you messed up fixing the first time, and are fixing it again?”

I nodded again, trapped like a congressman with $90,000 in marked bills in his freezer.

What gave it away? Was it my sweaty brow? Was it my sneaky look? Was it, well, the fact that I can’t lie to The Mrs.?

Umm, probably all of them. That and Joey Greco™ holding an empty Home Despot© bag and receipts for nails, screws, and various construction adhesives. I had hidden the evidence well, but that darn Joey Greco™, well, he’s just too good.

This is, really, is what irritates The Mrs. most. I’ve been working fairly long hours as of late, and The Mrs. likes, for whatever reason, to spend time with me. Oh, Internet, The Mrs. is not jealous of you, at least not since she’s found Myspace®. The Mrs. is jealous of the house.

Okay, The Mrs. isn’t jealous of the house. The Mrs. is as irritated as Thomas Jefferson was with John Adams claiming that Jefferson was a “liar, liar, pantaloons on fire,” to which Jefferson retorted by calling Adams a “triangle-hat-wearing cootie-carrier.” That’s how irritated The Mrs. is over the house.

When we moved in, each weekend brought a new batch of things that I needed to work on. The house is far from new, and, despite outward appearances, there’s more than I can do while The Mrs. catches a Saturday afternoon nap. This pulls me away from regular family adventures, which may take an afternoon.

To be fair, I did the same thing when we first moved to Fairbanks, though I spent that time in the basement drywalling and drinking singing hymns while The Mrs. was stuck inside upstairs in -30°F (-6,031°C) weather and six months (1000 centimonths) pregnant with the huge baby that is now famous as Pugsley. The Mrs. didn’t mind me being downstairs so much then. I think I irritated her as much as Isaac Newton irritated Britney Spears when . . . oh . . . never mind. We all know that old story.

So, I do have my trusty assistant in The Boy, who knows the names of the people on “This Old House” by heart, thinks that Bob Vila is his uncle, and knows where all of my tools are (by name) when I ask him. The Boy understands. The Boy’s got the knack, and, unfortunately he’ll soon be able to put out better quality work than I can. At least he’s light enough that he won’t knock the toilet paper dispenser through the drywall when he slips on water on the tile floor while hefting the toilet back into place and loses his footing. Not (as far as The Mrs. knows) that would ever happen to me. (Memo – need to patch drywall. Soon.)

So, Joey Greco™ caught me.

I cheated®.

Really, honey. The house means nothing to me. I only love you.