I'm so helpful that it's scary

We long ago established on this blog how much I enjoy helping others. We also know how good I am at helping others. I have been gently and not-so-gently kicked off of more church committees than I can count and have been booted out of the band (twice).  Helping others is NOT my gift.

My husband, however, is very good at helping others and actually has skills that are very much in demand. Turns out that my gift of endlessly scouring the inter-web for the perfect clip-art isn't a particularly helpful skill. But I am (mostly) always happy to tag along for moral support which usually (always) turns into a platform for my making annoyingly sarcastic and utterly unhelpful remarks and observations. It is both a blessing and a curse.

Brad was recently helping our pastor with his breaker box prior to the family moving into their new
house. I more-or-less happily sat in the scary basement to lend my support while Brad tackled the easy job of figuring out which wire powered what. Brad needed to determine which breaker (?) powered the fourth floor. I excitedly came up with a plan. "Pastor can go up to the top floor, I'll man the middle floor, and while you hit switches, I'll shout to you when the right light comes on." I was going old-school-colonial-America-bucket-brigade-style and I couldn't be happier. Plus it would get me out of the scary basement. "That sounds great," my pastor said, validating my incredible idea before eviscerating my vision, "or...we could just use our cellphones to communicate the same thing." Off he skipped to the 4th floor, leaving me in the scary basement. At least Brad was there. "I need a crucially important tool from my van," my husband said before scurrying off. I was all alone in the scary basement. Drip. Drip. Creak. Creak. Ghastly silence. Lurking shadows.

If you squint while crossing your eyes, you will
notice that this paranormal photo captured the
moment where I was being haunted by
R2D2. I know that it looks like a dehumidifier.
Squint a bit more.

And what is with a dirt floor? Unless your name is Laura Ingalls Wilder and you're hanging out in a sod hut while Almonzo is busy building you a one-room cabin in between plagues of locusts, dust storms and tornado sightings, you should have a REAL floor. Lay some cement people! There is no way that you can spend more then five minutes in a scary basement with a dirt floor before you begin wondering how many bodies are buried down there.

Eventually, it was determined that the five-minute fix was going to expand into five hours of fishing wire, ripping into walls, and handing Brad the "right" screwdriver. It was also determined that, while we may not have substantiated proof that the basement is haunted, we do know this: It made Amy Mosiman disappear.