“You know what we need? A compound mitre saw,” my artist wife told me a couple years after moving into our suburban bungalow.

I paused, wondering if this was some type of trap. 

She’s giving me permission to go buy a power tool, I thought. What’s the catch?

This required a delicate conversation to make sure no bubbles would burst. One mis-step might cost me a wife-approved power tool. 

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