Last weekend it was jack hammering this weekend it was woodwork. Cutting large boards with a table saw, carrying those large boards into the house and laying them just so to form a grid. Then making sure each board is level on both ends and in perfect alignment takes talent and patience. It is hard work and a long day for Mitch. At times his patience wears thin and when that happens, objects weighing less than him start flying across the room. Loud obscenities usually precede the flying debris, thus the phrase, “Mitch Fit Warning”. In light of last week’s mower debacle I decided that this weekend I would not try to accomplish any yard work and focus all of my energy on helping Mitch.

I did exactly that, I helped him by leaving first thing in the morning to go get a pedicure and do some shopping. Now before you think I was being selfish and only thinking of pampering myself while Mitch was slaving away working on the never ending home rehab, I’m here to tell you I was being totally selfless. You have no idea how hard it is to sit in a chair that vibrates and kneads your back and shoulders while a person sits at your feet massaging your legs and feet, then perfectly applying a sassy nail color to your toes. The sheer torture of having all of the tightness in your calves and feet rubbed out was almost more than I could bear. It’s a tough job but someone had to do it and it might as well had been me.

Don’t get me wrong, I was more than willing to stay home and help Mitch and offered many times but each time I asked if I could help he said no he was perfectly fine. He had everything under control. Besides he won’t let me do anything. He doesn’t trust me to run the saw, not because I might not cut the wood straight, he’s afraid I’ll cut off some appendage. He doesn’t let me carry the boards, too heavy and I might drop one on my foot or whack myself turning a corner. He won’t let me hammer, I might smash my thumb or hand or foot or whatever. Granted his fears are not baseless, I do have a history of self-mutilation, not on purpose, I would never intentionally hurt myself, I’m just a bit accident prone. It seems that body parts are always getting in the way of whatever it is I’m doing. So Mitch has become very bossy about what I get to do or not do around the house. The only reason I mow and not him is because he only mows in a straight line no matter what is in his path, it gets mowed.

Now when there is some really difficult DIY project I try to make myself as scarce as possible that way I don’t hear the obscenities and see the carnage. Mitch gets to vent and work through the problem and I get a pedicure and some new clothes. It’s a win-win situation.