So I electrocuted Boy Genius again. For anyone keeping score—which apparently BG is—this makes twice. Now I’m sure a smarter writer could do a lot with this, but I’m in a creative cul-de-sac at the moment so I’ll just resort to my usual:

“I told you to cut the power!” Boy Genius is rubbing his arm with enthusiasm and it’s pissing me off. Like he’s the only one who’s been traumatized here. I mean I had to keep Turbo from doing a victory dance around his flailing body. This is not stuff you put on Christmas cards. This isn’t even stuff you admit.

Well. Maybe it’s just stuff you shouldn’t admit. But since when has that ever stopped me? I pass my personal line of decency all the time. It’s how I know I still have one.

“I did cut the power!” I make sure to stand over him, hands on hip, so I look properly aggrieved. I like to think this makes me look a little like Wonder Woman too, but the last time I did it BG sniggered and asked how work was going at the Lollipop Guild.

“It wasn’t labeled right,” I insist. “Maybe we shouldn’t have bought a house whose architectural drawings were probably done in Crayon.”

Boy Genius looks like he might agree with me even though we both know he won’t. He loves the house. He loves how much work it needs. He loves the challenge. Actually, he loves almost any challenge and we won’t reflect on what that says about his grouchy wife.

But back to our burnt-hair scented living room where Boy Genius’s features are waded up in suspicion. “What are you thinking? You have that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re on a conference call with the voices in your head.” Turbo comes up to sniff him and he rubs her ears. She licks his cheek and it’s all very sweet—except I’m worried she’s fantasizing about barbecue. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Of course not.” But I have about twenty ways I could dispose of his body if I did. I learned how to burn corpses from Forensic Files. I learned about lye from a murder mystery. My long-suffering critique partner told me she’d dump a body in one of the wide green belts separating the highways in Virginia. I could go on.

No, really, I could.

This is one the unsung perks of living with a writer. We can’t be trusted to have any idea where a screwdriver set is, but, by God, we can remember every character we’ve created since fourth-grade gym class.

Which does Boy Genius absolutely no good.

Anyway, we’re going to fix the lawn mower this weekend. Should be fun, right? We’ve got moving metal blades, a cranky engine, and two weekend warriors. I mean, really, what could go wrong?

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