The topic of yesterday’s post continues to plague me. Haunt me. Cause me to shiver and wonder whether I am the target of a witch’s demonic spell.
What kind of person paints a ceiling dark, drab green? Does such a person worship alligators? Does he spend time wallowing in muddy swamps? Does a dark, drab green ceiling provide a mental link to the painter’s deviant upbringing? Does the painter get some level of dank, musty, reptilian comfort from such a ceiling? I ask only because I am curious why someone would do what I spent the day yesterday undoing. I covered the dark, drab green ceiling with a coat of white primer. Today, if my plans proceed as I expect they will, I will apply a coat of “ceiling white” paint to that same ceiling. My neck and my arms and my lower back will object strenuously, but I must get the job done. Next, I will apply a coat of paint to the walls of the same room ; the color of said paint is called “storm clouds” (or some such name). This room eventually will be my study, the place where I will write and read and gaze out the window at hummingbirds visiting their feeders (yet to be hung) and other birds enjoying seeds at their feeders. And, if the universe is just, an occasional deer or raccoon or fox or turkey or other form of wildlife as it scampers across my driveway.
While I was painting the hideous ceiling, my girlfriend was applying a coat of bright yellow paint to the laundry room. When she finishes, the yellow paint will make the room bright and cheerful; it will make doing laundry a delightful chore. Eventually.
Before we finished the day painting, though, we had a plumber visit to determine whether the big jetted tub has a leak. We know for certain it once had a leak; a leak severe enough that the plywood of the subfloor beneath the edge of the tub must be replaced. Fortunately, no leak at the moment. But he found evidence that, at some point in the past, the shower drain leaked. Though it appeared not to have damaged the subfloor, the quality of the “fix” to the leaking drain appeared shoddy, at best. After examining the shower’s construction, we tentatively reached a decision. The bottom line is that we may remove the jetted tub, tear out the shower, and rebuild the shower in the same footprint it now occupies. I did not anticipate any of this. I had hoped the house was “move-in ready.” Once these and various other issues are resolved, the place will be beautiful and comfortable and a lovely place to live. I just have to keep telling myself that.
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It’s 4:20 and I’m trying to decide whether I should go back to bed and try to get some sleep. I got up just before 3, intending only to pee and get a glass of water as replenishment. But I felt myself waken more thoroughly than would be compatible with sleep, so I decided to stay up “for just a while longer.” And then, of course, I thought I’d jot a few notes to myself. And that turned into this rehash of yesterday’s mix of progress and unpleasantness. I doubt I can sleep now. Perhaps, instead, I’ll shave and shower and prepare for another productive day. Time will tell.
