Suzy Says

We spent the whole day yesterday painting, or prepping for painting, or recovering from the horror of painting. Today, we’re mostly dealing with the aftermath, including feeling about 110 years old from unaccustomed muscular abuse.

It has been seven years, to the month, since we first bought this place, and seven years of gracious living have taken their toll on the paintwork. So it definitely needed to be done, especially with the arrival of my in-laws looming (only one more weekend to go!).

Fortunately, my trivial mind remembered the two paint colors we needed, for the bedroom (Northern Green) and the pantry (Kid Glove). The bedroom paint looked frighteningly similar to that green favored by mental hospitals and other institutions (now, is that cause or effect?) when first applied, but fortunately dried to a lovely sage green as advertised. But it was all downhill from there. a) The horror and boredom of painting (how do professionals stand it?); b) getting stoned on the paint fumes (only me, though, and it’s not as much fun as it sounds); c) our shocking incompetence; d) general bad luck, which also provided comic relief.

Hannah, who is also our fuzziest cat, decided that it would be a good idea to step in the green paint in the roller tray, and then make fuzzy green pawprints all over the hardwood floors and pure wool carpets, until we finally noticed. John freaked out, grabbed her, and gave her a quick bath, which they both hated. In the course of the bath, he noticed she had one of her recurring ear infections, and dosed both ears with medicine, with the result that she refused to sleep with us last night and is continuing snippy today, to punish us for our bad behavior.

John also ended up stepping in the same tray of paint, which I had thoughtfully moved to the foot of the ladder he was standing on, without mentioning this useful information to him. So while he stood on one foot like a flamingo, I untied his shoe and took it off. We tried to get the paint off it, but it has never been the same since. This was the first of four times that John stepped in the paint tray, and I really don’t think the other three were my fault.

John has used up his quota of swear words for this year, and for the rest of the year will be reduced to saying “Gosh”, or possibly, “Gee whillikers.”