“No more estate sales,” the WideEyedSpouse decreed on the way home from the upholsterer. We had just paid the deposit for redoing an antique sofa we scored for 20 dollars. It wasn’t going to cost 20 dollars to make it usably un-stinky and gross. “No more upholstered furniture at estate sales,” I negotiated. He nodded. “For a while,” I amended, ignoring the sharp look he sent across the center console. That was seven months ago. I broke only once late last spring and came home with an iron koi, an iron dragon, and antique porcelain vase with a little bird on it. Indisputably all cool things – none needing upholstering. “Ok,” the Spouse said, patting the dragon on the head and smiling at it, “no more estate sales until the house is painted.” June. July. August. September. Last night we stashed the scaffolding in the basement. The fall rains started and the temperature dropped. We’ll finish next summer. This morning I saw the Spouse flipping through pictures on his computer tablet. “What’s that?” I asked. “Oh, …