"Dangerous" Doings Don't Pay

I think I've mentioned before that we live in a rather old house. It has an upstairs, a ground floor, and then an unfinished basement.

Now, as a general rule, we don't really go upstairs. Truthfully(embarrassingly), it kind of freaks me out, so I just leave it to itself. However, there's a large living room/dining room that we want to start utilizing. It has gorgeous woodwork and a stunning fireplace. Buuuutttt....

We've been using it for storage, and the carpet is currently puke-green. (I love my great-grandmother, but she did NOT have good taste). So the job becomes carrying allllll the stuff we've stuffed there upstairs and pulling up the carpet to reveal the hardwood beneath.

This morning, Steven was working on some things on the computer, but I was working on the room. I wanted him to hurry. I went and tried to tell him to hurry. He remained. (Granted, what he was doing was important but still! Patience is not my thing.)

So, I went back and started carrying things up the steps. A box. A box of books. A heater. A fake Christmas tree. (You can see the escalation here?)

Finally, a chair that had been bothering me---well, I tripped over it. In frustration, I hauled it up and started rolling.

I made it to the foot of the stairs and looked up. It was a lonnnnngggg way up. But, I'm a stubborn chick, so I rolled it up the first little bit. Paused to pant. Rolled it up the second little segment. Paused. Panted. Finally, made it to the top.

Unfortunately for me, Steven heard the repetitive thumping, and, when I turned to go back down the stairs, there he was, scowling up at me.

"You do know you're in trouble?"

"For working?" I plastered a quite appalled look on my face.

"For letting your impatience get the better of you, and causing you to do dangerous things." I begged and wheeled, and got off with a lecture. But, I guess he'd been stewing, because my next semi-heavy thing hauled up the steps....

And, I was right back to square one.

He spun me around, and, what can I say? Instinct is to cover and protect. So I did. Fighting any kind of discipline is kind of a no-no, so a few stand-up swats quickly became,

"Didn't we just have this fighting conversation? You can go wait for me in our bedroom."

And, I did.

And, ouch.

And, now, he's gone out to get breakfast. And he's left me some very strict instructions on what I can and cannot do in his absence. Since, apparently, I can't judge what's safe for me to finagle upstairs, rule number one:

Don't take anything upstairs.

I can pick up the trash.

I can do laundry.

Dishes.

Whatever.

Just not what I want to be accomplishing.