“Eeeeeeek!” My husband heard my scream from two rooms away.
“What’s wrong?” he says, finding me in the dining room, where I had locked my eyes on the ceiling.
“A huge tarantula is hanging over our table!”
He rolls his eyes. “I am well aware you want new light fixtures,” he drones, then goes back to his laptop.
“And one over here!” I point to the entryway, where a similar oversized, oil-rubbed bronze, Mediterranean style fixture dangled from a heavy metal chain like something out of a Medieval torture chamber. “How have we lived with these!?!”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are prone to hyperbole?”
I did not have time to look that up. “We must act,” I said.
To which he said nothing, which I took to mean go ahead.
In fairness to me, I had been saying for months, as we sheltered in place staring at (and climbing) the walls, that next up on the home project hit parade was replacing the outdated light fixtures that came with (and weighed down) the house.
I do not blame the prior owners, who built the home in 2003. Back then, heavy, oil-rubbed bronze light fixtures were what you