In the vicinity of 1999, the female living in my domicile, then, and currently, known as 'the wife', decreed that the exterior of the structure was in dire need of more paint. Not wanting to pay for the services of some local handier-than-me man, she decided that I would do the job and she would help. I reckoned that was a fair deal, and that arguing was pointless, I set about gathering the necessary tools. I was informed that she would pick the color and would be ready to depart for the hardware store in 15 minutes.
Forty-five minutes later I helped my bride step into my pride and joy; The 1977 F250 camper addition 4X4. The old truck had seen better days, that much is certain. I had to put in a new(er) 300cu in straight six because the original had shot a rod. Turns out a motor won't continue to function when a rod cap falls off. The old Ford was geared so low you couldn't do more than 60mph, which never bothered me all that much as I don't tend to hurry at anything - particularly driving.
As we cruised down the thoroughfare, there was a sudden commotion and yelling fit from my wife's side of the pickup. Turns out I had forgotten to put the floor mat back in on that side. That probably wouldn't have been a big deal, and wouldn't have been noticed, except for the fact that the grease rag that she had been resting her feet on suddenly disappeared, making clear that the floorpan had rusted through and she could see the street gliding by. During the hissing and spitting that followed, I'm pretty sure there was cursing and verbal abuse not generally heard outside a biker bar.
We made it to the hardware store without further incident, though the atmosphere had a distinct chill. There followed the always unfortunate color-picking routine. I figured that I was already in enough trouble and would just agree to whatever she chose. It was not to be. After much rumination between her and the paint desk salesman, I was presented with two swatches - that I will go to my grave saying were exactly alike - and asked to choose. Sweating, I pointed at one and lied through my teeth saying, I thought was a bit lighter. Turns out I was wrong. The salesman, an older fellow, never looked directly at me. He just mixed up our order with a stone face and wished us well. I reckon that fellow was married.
We got back to the house and I set to work. Finishing the east side of the house during what remained of the cool of the morning, I moved on to the longer south side to paint in the welcoming shade of the trees during the heat of the day. Lunch was a ham sandwich and a glass of tea. Working steadily, I had the south mostly done by the time the wife came out to help. Praising my efforts, she offered that she would start on the north side. Ever safety conscious, I cautioned her to remember that the electrical line came down to the house on that side, and she should avoid hitting it with the ladder. Her reaction suggested that only a man would be so boneheaded as to do something so stupid. Or words to that effect. I reckoned that was probably true, and got her set up to work then returned to the opposite side of the house.
Not more that 15 minutes later my presence was requested in a loud and somewhat sour manner. Rounding the corner, I found my wife with paint on her hands, feet, face, shirt, pants, and hair. Very little of the paint I had poured in her bucket ended up on the wall.
Turns out that making this observation is one thing, laughing about it, even in a loving and gentle way - is wrong. Very, very wrong.
It was at that moment, fuming at my merriment, my wife angrily chose a course of action that led to several days of pain. She grabbed the ladder to move it over and ran directly into the electrical service. The ladder rung nearest her face - hit her in the face - stunned, her hands dropped. I grabbed the ladder and her - so she wouldn't fall. Then the cursing started.
It continued as she marched all the way around the house to the porch, at which point I couldn't hear it anymore. She didn't come back outside that day - or the next. In fact, I finished that project the next day without ever hearing another word from her.
Turns out I do not require much wifely supervision. However, that particular observation is mine alone. To this day - 'the wife' - will argue that point.