The Bench Mark Of A Good Marriage

     Last year (ee gads! That long ago?) I bought an artistically  distressed bench from some garden store, made out of some kind of renewable wood, from some rain forest, to support the people who are trying to eeck out a living in a modern world while living in the stone age. 
     I’m very PC and support a multitude of ridiculous and unsustainable causes that only make the administrators of the ‘Fund’ wealthy while actually not making any difference to the people they purport to assist. 
     The bench was twice the cost of what it was worth, and actually, fell apart within a few months.
     Of course it did.
     So, this thing has been sitting around, getting wet, and looking like some kind of Victorian toilet without a pan, for a while. A long while.
     Until the other day:
“Honey? You busy?”
“Not really but this might depend on what happens next.”
“Oh don’t be silly. When was the last time I asked you to do anything around here?”
“Do you really want me to answer that, Cheryl?”
eye roll
“Do you think you could somehow in your wildest dreams and with your amazing talents and tools craft a top for this bench so that we can have additional seating in the garden out front, and you can sit comfortably while smoking your cigars, and the cats have somewhere nice to perch, ’cause ‘ya know your little babies need a place to watch mommy, and it’ll be so pretty and you’re so good at stuff like this?”…
    I’m really good at this…

and I don’t mean carpentry.

Phase One
Ben gets out his table saw and wood, which he rips to make strips.
A vice-clamp is used, even to hold the wood strips in place. 

Phase Two
He has them evenly spaced and tacked down.
I am on the sidelines telling him he’s a genius and batting my eyes.

The piece has been primed and sprayed.
Much like Ben’s ego.

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