Wondrous Weekend & The Fabulous Flamingo

We'll get to this...

This past weekend we started priming the walls.  Why prime?  It's already painted...  Well, other than apparently it's a good idea says all the paint blogs, I realized that I could not get a clear sense of what different colors would look like on these walls with the online paint visualizers because they were mixing the base color and the color I chose.  Moo.

But it's really nice to actually see our home with white-ish walls.  It looks so different and so much brighter!  I'm not saying I want to go with white walls, but the new view is making me feel actual excitement here and there.

Saturday we had our First Paint Etc. Party and it was great!  I donned my ass hole jeans for the first time in months and a stained orange tank top.  I was delighted to find that while they're tight, my ass hole jeans fit once more.  Still, I'm somewhat certain they'll need to be retired soon.  There's barely anything holding in my tuchus anymore.  

Our dear friend Paul came by at noon and we loaded many boxes of our crap into his larger-than-our vehicle.  Then he and I went to the grocery store to get some food for the party and Chris went to Lowes to get some washers he needed.  

Along the way, I asked Paul to stop at the post office in town.  I'd received a number of FINAL NOTICE cards in the mail about a package and wasn't sure if they were crap or if there was actually something at the post office maybe.  Some folks have purchased some items from our registry (you are honorable and kind people -who also happen to have means), and I wasn't sure exactly how those things come to us.  (The registry) 

I've mentioned before how small the downtown of our new town is.  And the post office too is about as big as our apartment living room.  But I underestimated just how small the post office really is.  I arrived at the same time as a another person who opened the door, shut it, and went to the side of the building.  I climbed the first two steps of three, paused, looked at him, and said "occupied?"  He agreed that it was and I curiously went to wait behind him.  When it was my turn I stepped into something with an area as deep as a phone booth in the 80s.  If your feet are over size 15 (and my dad's were size 15.  He carried his roller skates in a suitcase.), you might not have been able to close the door behind you.

The Post Master is a no nonsense type who knew who I am just by looking at my name on the cards.  I didn't say who I was or remind her that I'm the new person in town who called recently.  She isn't the sort of friendly to say "Oh, welcome to town.  Didn't you call the other day?"  She simply said with no preamble, "How are things up there, anyway?"  I like her.

Chris and myself and Paul all met up at the house.

Food was set out, Paul set up speakers and started playing music, Chris and I had our first dance in our new house (and our first since the pandemic began) and then we got down to work.  Chris happily drilled holes in fence posts and concrete with his new tools (gadgets).  I set out drop cloths and started edging the walls in the bedroom.

I figured that edging was the most annoying work although my friend, Heather had said she wanted to do it.  I mean, there is plenty of edging to go around.  About two hours later I'd edged nearly half the room. 

That's when Katie and Heather showed up.  Heather brought her own paintbrush (feh to my inferior specimens!); Katie grabbed a roller.  Beers in hand, they proceeded to finish the entire room, edging to rolling, in three hours!

Industrious peoples

Ok, but could he be cuter?

I made us all some apple crisp, and then we nommed it.  I also discovered that our "new" oven is incapable of cooking anything at a lower temp than 350F (177C).  See, the "lower the temp" button has been pressed so many times, it can not be activated anymore and the over turns on to bake set at 350.  You can go up, but you can't go down!  I am super not impressed by this.  Chris joked that it's too bad we didn't get one of those home warranty plans, but I pointed out that they wouldn't have covered something like that anyway.  You get to reading the fine print on those and they don't seem to actually cover the things that are likely to go wrong with your home.  At least, the ones we looked at seemed so.

Many presses have been made

Anyway, we all left late in the evening with lots accomplished, us to ticked off cats who hadn't had dinner on time.

Sunday we had to be at the house bright and early.  My godmother, Amy-the-awesome, had done who knows how many hours of research to find us some people who would clean in the vast, far off lands in which we now own a home.  Jessica's cleaning service was arriving at 0800.  

Jessica and Nelson arrived at 0835, which was just as well because we were a little late too.  I asked them to clean the appliances, the bathrooms, and the window sills and casements.  Chris then went off to work because science can't be put off, and I started washing walls so they could get primed.

Nelson vacuumed blinds and washed the sills with a wet soapy rag while I waved the duster at the pernicious cobwebby wall snot.  I was recently asked what wall snot is.  It's what you get when a cobweb mates with about six other cobwebs, and over time, dust and decrepitude sneak in there and they all twine together to form these droopy masses that hang from ceilings and walls like kudzu trying to choke your favorite tree.

See?  Ick

At first I gently feathered the duster over the offensive snot.  When that resulted in the snot bunching up and clinging more tenaciously to the popcorn ceiling (we hate that too but it's too much work to make it go away right now), I tried rolling the duster like I was gathering cotton candy onto a paper cone.  When that didn't work I waved the duster like a TSA agent checking you for goodness knows what.  When that didn't work either I picked the damn stuff off with my fingers and unceremoniously dropped it on the floor.  It's not like we're not going to have a super mess on the floors by the end of this anyway.

I considered at that time what it might be like for Nelson to see me try to do his line of work and fail utterly at it.  It's painful to see people do a thing poorly that you know how to do well.  But he can't tell me how to deal with it better because he has to make a living somehow.  That conundrum, and the fact that I just like to tell people how they should do things, would drive me nuts.  

In the two and a half hours Jessica and Nelson were there, I think I took six breaks myself.  I apparently have no cleaning stamina, which you would know if you ever visited our apartment.  But I very much enjoyed sitting in my chair gazing out the window along the now clean window sill.  I don't think I quite realized how much the dirty window sills were bugging me.

As I was washing a narrow strip between windows, I came across some odd measurements.  They almost seemed like growth measurements but several lines were marked for the same year.

It was at this point that Ani Difranco's song Both Hands started going through my head, in which she sings the line, "I'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall.  And when we leave the landlord will come and paint over it all."

How odd it is to think about the history someone gives up in moving and how we -in some ways- erase it upon moving in.  This isn't a new thought.  It's just... maybe a little sad.  I may not like the brown color of the walls, but I sure bet the seller did.  And while I don't really want to know this guy at all, it's almost sad that the story of a home doesn't get to live on with the home... Like, if you could leave a notebook of the notable things that home has seen.  I guess that's the point of If These Walls Could Talk.

Nelson and Jessica were just about done but had forgotten to clean the washing machine.  And the washing machine was really right at the top of my list in terms of "I really do not want to clean this myself."

I have no idea, nor do I want to know, how Jessica removed the matted furry slime from the many ick places in there, but the stains in the basket just wouldn't come off.  She called me over to say she'd scrubbed them and... well... they were still there.  (Same thing with the ick tub, sadly.)  I asked if she knew what it was and she didn't.  She said, "what? It's like these other people don' clean!" We agreed she'd put some Clorox in there and run the whole thing.  Remind me to do whites first tomorrow... 

About half an hour after they left, Chris returned.  We took turns edging and rolling.  I met a large family of spiders, one pretty bauble-y spider nursery, and a wiggly ick bug that was residing behind some loose baseboard.

They're difficult to see up there in the corner because they're so ethereal and light

Do you understand textured walls?  I mean, interior walls.  It is definitely not a thing in New England where I grew up.  But in the southwest, it's a thing.  And you know, it does lend some interest to walls.  I get with that.  However, I believe that whomsoever decided that window sills should also be textured should be made to star in the next Kaopectate commercial.  As everything dried from its recent cleaning, the depressions in the wall material on the sills made everything look nearly as gross and dirty as they'd been before.  It seemed like the paint was porous and the grime just crawled in there to die a dingy and conspicuous death.  Either we need to prime those sills (and then paint them), or I need to put some nice looking wood on them someday so that they can be wiped and maintain that look for over two hours.  But... not something we can worry about right now.

Eventually we finished the entire front room, around the corner and all.  Some mishaps happened along the way...

The dog became slightly painted.  Chris and I both got reverse freckles.  I developed one wing and premature greying.

Luckily, I'd thought to bring a towel in case someone needed a shower.  So we showered and were introduced to the stupidest soap dish in the world as well as the fact that the hot water heater had been turned off.

I don't have a picture of the stupid soap dish as I tend not to bring my phone in for mutual bath time.  But it's a dish that is stuck into the corner of the shower stall (it's not a very nice shower, but whatever) and has absolutely zero holes to drain water.  I don't know what the water in there is from and it ooks me out.  I'm hoping it was just spray from when I'd filled our bucket in the shower twice, but I really didn't want to put my soap in there.

I was well sore and dead from all the painting.  It's been over a decade since I did any painting, and it's not the easiest.  I surely didn't think that I'd use my stomach much for doing so, but my incisions informed me otherwise.  They're fine, they just noticed that I was doing something, and whatever was I thinking doing something?  Also, I will never scoff at doing my squats again as my hip flexors were certain that I'd made too many bends of the knees these days.

All in all, we both had to work all day Monday and it was good to have a day off.  Tuesday we get the internet brought to the house.  Provided it succeeds, I will work, then paint, then work, then paint... for the rest of the day.

We will be painting and moving boxes all this week.  If you're interested in painting (no pressure... it's just some people like it) or would be willing to offer a few boxes a ride over, just let me know your availability since we'll be there at some point every day this week.  Also, if you're concerned about feeling like you have to do a lot, but you only have energy for a little, please!  Come over.  Do one corner if you like.  Or one wall.  And just hang out the rest of the time.  There's this not-new concept of chore friends and it's a thing.  I've always been into chore friending.

This Sunday we're planning our big move.  Now, I do believe in moving karma.  However, I also believe that karma persists through lifetimes; and maybe I got helped a lot in a former life because it turns out that none of the folks that Chris and I have helped move from his lab are available this weekend.   I'd love to make a moving party this Sunday, but the gracious offer one friend made for another friend to help us move the heavy stuff doesn't necessarily make a party.  Oh, we're happy to give you food and beer, or whatever, but we also don't want to make the sound of one hand clapping, if you know what I mean.

My sister put a meme on my FB page a few weeks ago about how all of us are old and decrepit now and basically we have to hire movers.  And by the graciousness of some friends pitching in some money, we now can hire someone to help.  So, yay for all the friends, those with functional bodies, those with money, and those who are choosing to do something for else during this time.  You are appreciated!

The Flamingo Idea

One of the minor things that has been bugging me about our new home is our mailbox and the fact that our drive way is so blind that you can barely tell when you've gone past it.  We're slowly starting to understand the signs that our driveway is approaching, but it's really tough to find it before you're already past.  And our mailbox has no flappy lid thing and the flag covers the street numbers. 

I looked online and you can get flappy lid things for mailboxes that sort of pop into the frame, but when I looked at ours, the corner is mangled, so I doubt that would work.

I have this yen to do something crazy with our mailbox, both because it's so boring and beat up right now and because if you're going to go past our driveway, at least there should be something there to tell you you went too far.  

I've thought of a lot of possibilities.  Painting birds and flowers on the mailbox has been done.  Mailbox wraps are cute but don't scratch my itch to do something myself.  And for some reason, I keep coming back to pink sparkles.

In my childhood, pink plastic flamingo lawn ornaments were a big thing.  

I hated them.  

"So cheesy!" I thought.  I remember there was this big victorian house on my father's 45 minute drive to work.  It was painted green with pink trim and the lawn had at least 25 flamingo ornaments in it.  All lined up in front of the house.  And then after college, I was living with my best friend who entered a flamingo decorating contest.  He decorated his to be Devine.  

I was still rolling my eyes about plastic lawn decoration, but when I went to see the exhibit... I was starstruck with the fabulosity of the flamingo.  

So, what I'd really like to do is make the mailbox a flamingo.  I'd want to see if I could find pink bits of mirror to mosaic onto the frame for the body.  Create (somehow) a neck and head for it.  I'd have to make the flag one leg, and then make the other the "supporting" leg.  I could put a bit of a lump on it's back for the house numbers.  Or put them on the wing if the wing wasn't under the flag.  

It's a terrible idea.  I mean, for one thing, the mirrors would catch the sun and be dangerous to drivers going around those silly curves in the road.  Chris hates the idea.  But I love it so much!

I was detailing the plan to Chris as we walked the dog yesterday.  Yet another issue is the young folk who come down the street smashing mailboxes with their baseball bats.  I mean, a flamingo would be just screaming to be bashed.  I don't know that this happens in this town, but I did grow up in the country and kids have to amuse themselves somehow.  I never bashed mailboxes, or engaged in cow tipping, but I knew folks...

So we decided that the first time this happens, when we put it back together, we'd have to give it bandages, a sling, maybe a crutch.  Then the second time it happens, we have to put reinforced rebar into the head and give it camouflage combat gear.  We nearly laughed ourselves off the sidewalk imagining this. 

Anyhoo, send a message if you're just pining to paint or move stuff this week.  And if not, thank you so much for reading my silliness!