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Saturday, January 10, 2004

Hundred thirty pound weakling.

Having a contractor in your house--even, or perhaps especially, one who is a good friend--is a continual exercise in emasculation.

While he's cutting and measuring drywall, I'm dressing the kids. While he's installing a new plywood floor base (and removing the toilet to do so), I'm taking out the garbage. While he's laying tile, I'm trying to keep myself awake and get the kids to sleep.

During my blogging hiatus last year, I installed recessed lighting in the bathroom--well, finished doing so, anyway, as I had started sometime in 2000. As part of the process, I slathered drywall mud on the ceiling to hide the old stucco that some idiot homeowner had placed there before. It looks okay now that it's been sanded down, but it's, y'know, amateur work, and Rex offered to smooth it out a bit for me.

"Rex," I said, hurt, "please! You've put up new walls, removed water damage, and made my wife swoon with your tile prowess! Leave me the tiniest sliver of manhood!"

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