No good deed goes unpunished. And, in my case, no deed done after my husband has gone to bed comes to any good. That second statement is one that I should make my mantra. My spur-of-the-moment decisions, usually happening about 10 p.m., have gotten me into many a pickle. And most times, it’s the poor “I was asleep when she did this” husband who has to pick up the pieces.

Let me give an example. I love painting rooms. I will sit in my living room … or dining room … or bedroom … or bathroom … for months, ruminating that I hate the color of the walls. Or thinking the room color is old fashioned, too dark, too bright or too boring. Pick the descriptor. A couple of years ago, I decided I was going to paint a small bathroom on our main floor. I was just going to paint it white. No biggie. I found a can of white paint in the garage. I usually ignore whether it’s matte, or glossy or semi-gloss. Not important. I know those designations mean something and that my husband is obsessed with the protocols of said-designations. I don’t care. I only care about the color.

I got a step ladder, took the pictures off the walls and at 9 p.m., just after the “do it by the laws of room painting” husband was in bed, I started slathering white on the walls. I didn’t cut in (it was white!). I didn’t put anything on the floor or counters (I’ll be careful!).

OMG. Drips were everywhere. The darker paint showed through. The sink had flecks of paint everywhere. It looked horrible. What. A. Disaster. I went to bed. When Brian got up, he apparently was drawn by the fresh paint smell to that downstairs bathroom. He looked at it and, I’m assuming, promptly fixed himself a large mug of strong coffee.

When I got up, hours later — it was a late night of painting — he had already started repairing the mess. It took him two long days to fix. He was SO NICE about it, as always. Giving me the lecture about tarps, proper paint strokes, taping things off and, of course, talking about when to use gloss/semi-gloss/matte.

I learned my lesson and haven’t done a painting project without him since 2018. But the late-night-spur-of-the-moment projects haven’t stopped. Case in point last week. My husband and son and I thoroughly enjoyed the big snow. We ventured out of the house once for a quick grocery run. We had a fire crackling in the fireplace, finished decorating the tree, made hot chocolate from scratch and rewatched two of our favorite movies (the 1951 “Christmas Carol” and 2019’s “Knives Out.”).

As usual, Brian went to bed at 9 p.m. He usually gets up about 5 a.m. or earlier. I settled in for a night of British mysteries and scrolling through Tik Tok. I looked outside at the winter wonderland and decided to do my husband a favor and clear the driveway and sidewalk. I wanted him to look at in the morning and smile at the cleared paths.

I bundled up, went to the garage and pulled out the electric snowblower. I love that it’s so quiet and won’t disturb neighbors. It was magical outside. Not too cold and just beautifully white. Our Christmas lights were on, creating their own multicolored glow. It was harder than I thought because the snow was so heavy. But it was doable.

Soon, all that was left was the small walkway to the front steps. I pushed the small snowblower. Grinding noise. It stopped. I thought I’d hit a stick. I turned it back on. Grinding noise. It stopped. I tilted it over. The orange extension cord for our Christmas lights was wound around the blade tighter than the braids my mom put in my hair in grade school.

After a moment of “Brian will KILL ME,” I decided I could fix this. I took the battery out to prevent an arm being chopped off and spent nearly 40 minutes unwinding the cord. Did I mention how tightly it was wound around the blade?

Moral of the story? As I mentioned: No good deed goes unpunished. And Brian just smiled and said “Don’t worry about it” when I told him what happened.

I love that guy.

Contact this reporter at editor@westlifenews.com or 440-871-5797.

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