Robb and I had an ongoing debate.

I believed one neither needed to be an engineer nor a carpenter to hang pictures on her wall.

He disagreed.  Every hanging project involved complex tools, levels, lasers, brackets, and nails in excess.

I assured him that I had spent a good many years of my life pounding nails into the wall without any consequence, with only the fruit of charming decorating.

He asserted that a studfinder was essential, and then he always guided the studfinder to in fact find him, The Stud.

Last night, I decided to hang some paintings I bought at a street market.  Frankly, I delighted in the willy-nilly nonsense of my picture hanging algorithm.  I eyeball it, I pound a nail, and it works.

Lovely.  Simply lovely.

And then I heard Tucker’s voice from downstairs.

“Mommy, is that you hammering?  Please don’t pound nails into the wall.  I really hope that’s not what you’re doing.”

Oh, for crying out loud.

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