In Which I Attempt To Shame One Gibson Praise

I'd like to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to JD and the Skinman, who spent their first remotely springlike weekend working on a building project out here in the middle of nowhere.  As it turns out that I have no appreciable construction skills, and Dr. S's demanding schedule precludes much time spent drywalling, their expertise and labor was invaluable.  Those are two guys who know their way around tools.

(Entendre only partially intended.)

So, yes, our "basement remodel" is finally complete, and nearly fully furnished.  (How many other couples do you think have argued over the placement of an in-home centrifuge?)  Also, I did manage to catch a few lessons in the ways of the handyman, so as to be at least slightly less useless in the future.  My next project: attempting to build my own chicken coop, which is itself a subsidiary of the "Mulder becomes a master gardener" scheme.  Everyone needs a good post-apocalyptic skill or two at the ready, right?  Just in case?  Right now all I've got to rely on is my sneaking suspicion that, should we fail, Dr. S will still somehow come to rule us all, and I'm pretty sure she'd keep me around as her concubine.  But I figure I still better have a backup plan.

Oh, and Gibson?  Way to be too cool for your elders, kid.  You missed some CRAZY fun.  And nobody knows fun like a bunch of repressed, middle-aged ex-or-current-feds.  Booya.  (That's still a phrase, right?)