Disarmed

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.