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Painting: what separates the tigers from the lap cats? Woodwork.
Yesterday morning I started out for the gym (seriously) for a little yoga therapy. No more than half a mile away, the car was filled with acrid smoke. I went back home. I know the problem: the blower on my heater has been on the fritz... whatever was wrong, yesterday it decided to fry.
Car in the shop meant I had nothing to do but face the woodwork in our entry-slash-gallery. Two doorways, baseboards, and woodwork lining the stairs and wrought iron banister.
I thought I'd gone overboard scraping, spackling, and sanding, but 35-year-old trim is like a middle-aged body -- astonishing in its imperfection, taunting in its revelations.
I copped a bad attitude. Whatever hadn't already been burnished smooth by my gentle ministrations got slapped with paint. "Maybe the paint will fill it in" -- a thought encompassing a universe of wishful thinking.
Painting around the carpeted stairway was the worst, partly because the carpeting itself is gross and needs replacement badly (future project). There seemed to be carpet fiber embedded in the woodwork, like hair growing out of an old man's ears. Ugh. Slap, slap, slap, get it done!
With a long mental health break in the late afternoon, I finished at 8 o'clock last night.
Luckily, the lighting is bad on those steps...
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