Engines of construction have engaged

All along I have been the pillar of encouragement of my husband’s dream to have a “place of his own.” I’ve even gone so far as to smile when he brought home the bill for all that wood and stainless steel roofing.
I would be crazy to step on the procedure of hammer and nails that someday will culminate in my sanity being restored by Pete’s absence from the couch during the long winter months.
Besides, the addition of a little workshop, smartly-dressed, only will add to the esthetics of the property, right?
Imagine then, me scooping my jaw up off the gravel driveway Friday afternoon when I pulled in after work. There it was.
(Frankly, I should have known the “larger than life” virus would cross over to the shed project).
After putting my mandibles back in place, I couldn’t help myself. I launched a terse inquisition from across the yard that—by the flat stare in my direction from Pete and his #1 cohort—must have sounded like fingernails on a blackboard (or blah, blah, blah).
What part of the draft plan called for something big enough for King Kong to stand up in?
“Oh, oh, the supervisor is here,” remarked #1 cohort, which sparked laughter in both men—and a cluster of snakes in my hair.
And the roof wasn’t even on yet. By the time that section was added, the shed could harbour a space ship from “Area 51” for all I knew.
“Make a sanctuary, no matter how small” had been my advice long ago. Boy, did he take that sage counsel in backwards or what?
But it was too late. Bolts and nails secured in place said so (never mind that both men had turned their backs, put on their “nag helmets,” and continued working).
To quote the lyrics of country and western singer Willie Nelson, “There’s nothing I can do about it now.” The engines of construction were engaged and even my greatest persuasions of the female kind had no power here.
There was nothing I could do but watch.
So the weekend hammered on. At the crack of dawn Saturday, Pete strapped on his tool belt and slipped back into “shed euphoria.”
As I headed to town for reinforcements, I spotted him trying to lift one whole completed wall into place by himself. He kept mumbling that he was calling on the “ancient ones” who had built the pyramids.
When I got back, the wall was upright (that confirmed my suspicions about his super powers).
Male reinforcements joined in around 3 p.m., and sun and heat pitched in, producing enough sweat to warrant ice cold beer in October. Remarkable.
I just parked it in my lawn chair, alongside fellow female conspirators who’d accompanied the men.
With one eye on the shed and the other on my “cooler,” I planned my strategies. I would make the most of this project one way or another. After all, I was there peeking over his shoulder when Pete drew out the workshop on paper.
There was plenty of room on the proposed second floor for storage—and believe me, I’ve got a lot of stuff that needs a permanent home.
Quite frankly, I don’t think it will be a problem. For every one of my pack rat sacks that goes into his attic, I could offer to pitch an outstanding work order from in the house.
(On second thought, maybe I’ll just use my powers of female persuasion).

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