A Danger to My Own Home

I sometimes joke you can’t take me anywhere because I'm such a klutz. But apparently, I’m not safe to be in my own home either. This weekend Husband noticed that the bulb in one of our recessed lights had burned out in our living room. The ceilings are high in that room, which makes a simple task of changing a light bulb into an Olympic-level feat of balance and precision. I managed to take the old bulb out, and I was attempting to put the new one in. I felt that the bulb was slipping and I starting yelling for Husband, “Oh, s##t! Help!!” The next sound was that of the light bulb crashing to the floor and bursting into a million tiny pieces. Husband came running in and asked, “What happened??” I apologized, feeling sad that I had broken the new bulb. Husband, however, thought it was fascinating. He studied the pattern of dispersed pieces that stretched several feet in every direction, and he marveled saying, “Wow, the filament is still intact!” We eventually got the light bulb changed. This time I wisely let Husband change it, as I’ve banned myself from light bulb duty.