Quietly chanting "Die. Die. Die."

One of the things on our household "to do" list is to replace the dining room light. It's been on the list since the day we moved in fifteen years ago.

It's a nice enough looking light, all smoked glass and brass with those goofy bulbs that are shaped like candle flame, in fact it would be beautiful in a two-story home entryway or foyer where it could hang above everyone and cast it's gentle light upon the scene.

But in our dining room it's misplaced. It hangs too low. It's not centered in the room. It's not centered over the table. And on those occasions when the dining room table has been taken out (like for painting) I crack my skull on it repeatedly. I hate it for physical reasons. My wife hates it for ascetic. She just thinks it's ugly.

There are only two of the eight bulbs currently burning. I discovered a while back that my wife's plan was to let it die a slow lingering death, and when it finally goes dark it will be replaced by something newer, smaller, neater and easier to keep clean.

I joked that she's probably got the same plan for me. She didn't deny it.