I've made great strides on the house the past couple of days. On Friday I scraped, caulked, and primed the clapboards that Dylan and I (mostly Dylan) hung the day before.
On Saturday, in between the rain, I accomplished a whole list of things without incident or injury:
Cranked open the basement trapdoor
Located the correct (unlabeled) breaker for the outside lights
(And labeled the breaker so I don't have to go through that again.)
Did not get trapped in the scary basement.
(Even though I ran up and down the steps at least four times.)
Cut an electrical cable to the proper length
Stripped the cable
Installed a new outside light
Tested the light (It works!)
Slammed the basement trapdoor shut without mashing my fingers or toes
Got the first coat of paint on the back wall
Picked up that big pile of junk in the middle of the yard
Mopped the floors in the laundry room and kitchen
Went back outside to admire the back wall again
Boy, I sure did get a lot done. I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Pretty proud indeed.
And then I walked into the kitchen, stepped on a cat toy on the wet floor, skated halfway across the room, and nearly knocked myself unconscious when I slid into the closed kitchen door.
Pride literally goeth before a fall.