Guests are coming! Quick, grab a hammer

IN LIFE, there are two things of which you can be very certain.

(1) Everybody has a little bit of a mustache. Everybody.

(2) Nobody does anything around the house till there are guests coming.

We would live out of suitcases, were it not for the threat of occasional visitors. Now the mother-in-law is about to arrive -- another one of those authority figures I always have trouble with. Flight 364 out of Fort Lauderdale. Before she gets here, there’s a ceiling fan to hang.

“That old fixture really wiggles,” my wife warns.

Of course it wiggles.

Back in the 1950s, when our little house was built, building codes apparently called for ceiling fixtures to be supported only by God’s good graces. In the ‘50s, that was good enough. Of course, God was more active then.

So up in the attic I go, to brace the outlet box for a ceiling fan.

“OK, I’m coming up!” I announce to anything living in our attic.

One of the nicest things about Californians is how we open our homes to all creatures. Squirrels. Possums. Hobbits. Doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor, your garage and attic are fair game to any critter that can shimmy up a downspout.

Generous people, Californians. Generally, we don’t get enough credit.

“Yep, I’m coming up,” I announce, then pound open the attic door.

Sure, enough, the first thing I see is a roof hole the size of a show poodle. Not only could a raccoon crawl through, he could bring his pregnant girlfriend. His big-screen TV. The new bassinet.

“Oh no,” I say.

“What’s wrong?” my wife asks.

“Nothing,” I lie.

I am doing this for her, you know. I am crawling up in the attic because her mother is coming from Florida, and my wife wants everything to be just right. Better than right. Perfect. Better than perfect. A fairy tale.

Twenty years with me, and she still believes in fairy tales.

“Just remember, I’m doing this for you,” I grumble from the attic.

For a week now, we have been preparing. You know how it goes. You have guests coming, and suddenly you notice the carpet stains. The dust on the sill. Those little nicks in the woodwork that weren’t there yesterday.

So, for a week we have been getting ready, concentrating on the little bedroom in the corner of the house. Fresh paint. New carpet. A frilly new quilt no one’s allowed to sit on, even me.

For the crowning touch, there’s this ceiling fan. If I can just finish this fan, my pre-mother project will be complete. My lovely wife can breathe again.

“Oh jeeesh,” I mutter as I rake my knee on a pipe. I am bleeding now. And the 50-year-old insulation up my T-shirt feels like a thousand flea bites.

“Now what?” my wife asks.

“When was my last tetanus shot?”

I’m sweating pretty good too. Except for the hole where the critters come in and out, there’s no air up here. I’m pretty sure my kidneys are about to shut down.

I lie on my belly, over what is probably a bunny’s nest. Four baby rabbits are likely looking up at my navel, going, “So this is what death is like. We’re not even going to make it to Easter.”

Isn’t that the way life goes? You think you’re someplace safe and warm and before you know it, you’re being smothered by some goon who hasn’t ever showered, spit-muttering about his mother-in-law. Mother-this and mother-that. The way he says mother, well, you can tell he’s been to prison.

“Can you see it?” I yell down to my ground crew.

“See what?” someone asks.

“I’m shining my flashlight through the fixture,” I say.

“What fixture?”

“The one with the flashlight shining through it,” I say. “See it?”

“No.”

Simple project, a ceiling fan. I should have it up by fall.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.