The radio silence over the past week is largely due to the home improvement we've been doing. Compared to most projects, this is small potatoes - repainting the inside of the house and swapping the contents of the two bedrooms - but oh dear god. The angst. The frustration. The paint tracks everywhere.
When we started this project one week ago, we were so innocent and carefree. We figured we'd get the place done in four days. WAHAHAHA. Thus far, we have managed only to paint the two bedrooms, and are ecstatic about it, as it means we can finally stop sleeping on the fold-out sofa-bed.* Touch-ups be damned; as soon as the paint dried to slightly damp, we got our bedframe back together.
Yesterday was the worst day. We were painting a very small room a) this god-awful paint that was incredibly sticky, b) had paint from that #%!%!$ power sprayer everywhere, making everything sticky (at one point, I had no less than three separate items stuck on my feet), c) swelteringly hot, and d) filled with fumes. As the minutes, then hours ticked on, I began to make bargains with fate, god, whatever powers that be that we could finish the job before one of us went crazy and started bashing the walls in with our fists.
So we now have a smurf blue room and a gorgeous cranberry room, or as everyone else calls it, the red rum room. We're taking the weekend off as a sort of mental vacation. Next weekend, the fun continues. I'm thinking drinking heavily should make it more bearable, if a little sloppier done.
* The other day, I got back from yoga and called the cat's name. Nothing. Weird, I thought, as he's always there to greet me/attack the dog as we come through the front door. I start looking through the whole house, which is a complete mess and has its contents strewn about like someone had picked it up and shook it. To make things really interesting, he's a grey stripey cat in a house full of shadows. After about ten minutes of fruitless searching, I bring the dog in to help. He? Was no help. So now I'm starting to get frantic that somehow the cat got in a bag of trash and was tossed out and now was heading east back to DC, a la "The Incredible Journey." Right when I'm starting to sob, a thought crossed my mind and I unfold the sofabed. Out popped Shrapnel, looking rumpled but none the worse for wear. He apparently had been back there exploring when the bed got made on him, pushing him to this empty space in the bed. Of course, you'd think that he would've protested when that happened or at least spoken up when I was frantically calling his name. Nope. But later on that day, when we had to put him in the bathroom so he wouldn't step on fresh paint, you should've heard him squawk. So let this be a lesson to you: don't make up your sofabed without checking to make sure all pets are elsewhere first.