Someone keep me from killing Mr. Maryn, please.
He's been all gung-ho about clearing out Kid Two's room and turning it into a guest room before we have guests in two weeks. (It's sat empty for 18 months, but now we have two weeks?) He's been careless about packing up Kid Two's possessions, separating items which go together and not labeling boxes as completely as he could, so Kid Two (who should have packed his own things up, of course) has little chance of finding anything without unpacking everything.
So anyway, last night I got snippy about his vacuuming the carpet in there, which we will be tearing out. Kid Two is a tinkerer, big-time, and the carpet is full of screws, nails, thumbtacks, bits of wire, and other vacuum killers. My vacuum is fairly new and has already needed repair twice (because of the family's long hair, which wraps the beater bar until it can't turn, then burns out the parts that keep trying). I am not eager to have a third repair because we damaged the beater bar with metal.
So, while I'm out grocery shopping this morning, Mr. Maryn decides he'll vacuum this rug we're ripping out anyway. He breaks the vacuum. Unable to vacuum any more, he decides he will remove the phone line running along the baseboard, since we don't plan to have a phone in that room. He somehow manages to disconnect the phone to his study and to my study, so now when it rings, we have to dash downstairs to answer it.
I told him to quit fucking around in there, but he's still doing something, only now with the door closed, which makes me fear his next announcement.
Maryn, happily married but not joyous every freakin' minute