Tuesday, February 24, 2015


When he left for the office Saturday morning (tax season) Husband offered to bring pizza home for supper.

"I'm guessing you won't be able to lift your arms so I don't want you to have to cook," he told me.

My husband knows me too well. He knew that I was going to be painting that day, and that even though painting is not quite as tiring as being a baby, having a meal with me was quite likely to be very much like having a meal with Max.

I'd already stripped off the darling bears-and-tractors wallpaper a few weeks ago, and the professionals had finished replacing the original-issue windows and outside door with new energy-efficient models. (Don't believe they needed to be replaced? The door out to the balcony had a tendency to self-open when the wind was from the north--check out the fancy way we kept it closed. We are klassy.)
Yup. A stack of CDs wedged into the crack.
Over the past few weeks I've scrubbed the wallpaper paste scum off the walls (vinegar and hot water, applied with a sponge and rinsed with clear water), spackled the dents where pick-up football games had gone awry (I know! I'm practically Bob Vila), and prime-coated over the little blue dots where Boy #2's Plasti-Tak had kept hundreds of pictures affixed to the ceiling. 

The room was ready to paint in the gorgeous color Husband chose, and I approved. 

Unfortunately, you are not going to see that color in this post because Husband was absolutely right about my stamina or lack thereof: At the end of the day my arms were not only too tired for supper preparation, they were too tired to hold the camera and take a picture. 

Soon, people, soon. We'll be moving furniture in and negotiating whether to keep the art deco armoire I found at a garage sale and whether the futon should be positioned kitty-cornered or against the wall. At that point, I'll take another picture and you can see if I should have just kept the wallpaper and CDs. 

In the meantime, the pizza was delicious, even if I couldn't lift it to my mouth.

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