They've been sitting on my fireplace mantle for 10 weeks. Taunting me. Reminding me that my sons received the gift of procastination from me.
But tonight was different.
After vacuuming, dusting, organizing (DVDs and CDs) and removing the wicker toy chest from the familyroom, (Drew is 12. He assures me he's past the toy stage), Max hung them for me. Using a tape measure, ruler, pencil, nails, hooks and a man-sized hammer, he exhausted himself physically and mentally doing a perfect job:

Do you see the 4 light switches below?
Tonight, for no good reason, the second one to the right became ineffectual. Useless even. I can flick that puppy up, then down, but
NOT ONE of these pot lights will come on.
What are the chances that each one of those bulbs burnt out at exactly the same time?
I checked the breaker. None have flicked over to the off position. Its a mystery.
I plug the lamp that illuminates my photo album table into it.
(What? You don't have a photo album table? I'm pretty sure everybody does...)
The spot directly in front of this table is the most used bit of floor space in my house. Because that's where I keep my current photo album on display.
But the lamp doesn't work anymore. It's not the bulb. Or the lamp. It's that outlet in the floor.
(Oh, can you see my travel tiles in the upper right corner? They look nice, don't they? Max - you did a great job. Being able to hang stuff is a "marketable" skill. When it comes time to negotiate a wife for you, this experience will increase your value significantly.)
Getting back to my whining - I still can't open my garage door.
During the summer, I fantasized about marrying a guitar-playing, long haired, denim-clad worship leader.
Tonight? I'm thinking electricians are probably a hottest guys on the planet.
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