Bright ideas

We're getting a bunch of electrical work done at our house. New can lights in the living room, a new fixture in the dining room, and few odds and ends. However, the major projects are proving to be difficult.

As I write this, R and A (our charming and patient electricians) are trying desperately to get power run from the desired switch to the desired fixture location in the dining room. It's not easy. Sort of like how getting the can light placement right wasn't easy (surprise water pipe the trouble there). None of this is going particularly well, and the number of holes in our ceiling is now starting to exceed the number of fixtures to be installed.

All in a day's work for these guys, though. They encounter these kinds of obstacles like I encounter itchiness: with annoying regularity. They are good at handling this kind of stuff. They are used to it. But today is sort of a little different; today they have me.

See, I ask questions. I offer suggestions. I am helpful.

I am so helpful that they've stopped talking to me.

The smiles are gone. The pleasantries are things of the past. Despite my marvelous attention to detail, my ingenious design schemes and my profound dedication to the project at hand, they have had it with me. This is okay. I'm okay with this, really. But, the bigger problem is that I still can't stop. I can't stop watching. I can't stop ASKING. I mean, what if the outlet behind the bookcase could be of some help? Have they considered that maybe harnessing the power from the built-in-smoke detector could streamline the process? What about the measurements? The measurements! Thank god I thought of that! Do they remember that we measured one dimension from the wall but the other from the bookcase? How could this get done without me?!

I'm addicted to trying to be helpful to them. Each time I try it's worse than the time before, but I can't stop it. It's miserable. Every noise, every sigh, every muffled "uh oh" makes me cringe. Finally, I take the iBook upstairs and sit on the bed. Closing myself in here will keep me from forcing them to kill me. Staying up here will save my life. I breathe. I type. I breathe some more. Then, a knock at the door. It is R, no doubt up here to do me in. I don't blame him. I look at him understandingly, as if to say, "Yes. Kill me. It's for the best." But just at that moment, he instead asks if he can check out an outlet upstairs. Oh. Ah! See?! I am needed! Redemption.

I help. I tell him where to look. I feel tons better, now. And so, much to everyone's dismay, I wander back down to the kitchen table where I can keep a better eye on things. After all, who knows when they might need my help again?