I went to Sister’s house this morning to hang things on her son’s bedroom walls.
It’s because they’ve been redecorating Cousin K’s bedroom, and Sister had purchased all manner of ocean-themed THIS and THAT, according to his requests for a beachy kind of room. I think what he really wanted was a giant pile of soft beach sand at the foot of his bed, so that he could build sandcastles without leaving the house.
I have no idea why Sister put the smack down on this and told him no.
But today she had oars and buoys and anchors and pictures of fish to hang. I think I was her support system, who would look at her random placement of things, nod and say, “Yes. Smash a nail RIGHT THERE and hang that beast!”
Hanging things on the wall with Sister is enjoyable. Well, it would have been more enjoyable, had the girl thought ahead of time and had a hot paper cup of Starbucks chai tea waiting for me, but she didn’t. Apparently she believes I’m some free kind of day laborer. What was really enjoyable though is that we did not use a tape measure.
Oh no, ma’am. We did not.
Sister just grabbed a handful of randomly-sized nails from their garage and a hammer that was probably used in a carnival to test the strength of strong men, as they bashed the hammer into a base and shot the metal thingy upwards to ring the bell.
Yes. It was a rather large hammer, but we didn’t grow up pampered in the city. We know our way around a few tools.
We’d eyeball an anchor on the wall, and Sister would say, “It looks good!” And, just like that, I’d slam a nail into the wall, and we didn’t care if it was dead-center or not. If we didn’t like things in the end, we used the back of that hammer to yank the nail out… and we just tried again.
At one point, we realized that a little rack to hang jackets on actually had spots for TWO NAILS, which is daunting. Once you get that first nail in, then you usually have to measure for the exact placement of Nail Number Two. I believe Sister’s exact words were, “We’ll just get the nail CLOSE to the hook, and if it doesn’t quite reach, I’ll bend the nail with the hammer until it does.”
God bless her.
In Hubs’ world of hanging things, we MUST use a tape measure. And also a level. And any manner of laser levelers that cast red lines on the wall that we might happen to have in our garage. We’ve also been known to use some kind of string with chalk dust all over it, so that when you snap the thing, you get a purple line on your wall and a bunch of chalk dust up your nose.
Hubs is precise, people. It’s why he doesn’t appreciate it when he asks me how long a section of our wall is, and I say, “It’s thirty-four-and-a-half inches… and then two little lines past the half-inch mark.” That is not any kind of language that Hubs can understand.
Him telling me to, “Mark a TINY pencil dot at four and five-sixteenths” is a foreign language to me, too. I have to get my doctor-issued reading glasses to even see marks like that, and listen — usually the nail is wider than those itty-bitty marks on the tape measure, so does it really matter if it’s at five-sixteenths or seven sixteenths?
No. I don’t think it does.
After Sister and I beat nails into K’s walls all willy-nilly and LET’S POUND ONE HERE, we sat down to chat, without the luxury of a Starbucks drink, while the Littles played.
Naturally, my camera was in the Suburban. I might have rid my vehicle this weekend of petrified chicken nuggets and a Dum-Dum sucker that pulled a pound of carpet fiber out of the floor when we yanked on it, but I left a spot for my camera.
I did Thing 2’s hair this morning with the gel. When I tried to snap some pictures of him, he refused to grin for me. Instead, on Pose Number Two, he shook his head back and forth and yelled, “Ah duh! Ah duh!”
That is a language that I can understand, because it’s how Thing 2 says, “All done.” The kid is sixteen months old, and he’s already shaking off photo shoots with an “Ah duh!”
The Littles played with a puzzle this morning. H kept trying to put the pieces into the wooden puzzle base, exactly like a person is supposed to do. Thing 2 kept trying to throw the little pieces across the living room while he hollered out, “Uh oh! Uh oh!” We’ve tried to tell Thing 2 that “Uh oh” is something we say when there’s an ACCIDENT; it is not something we yell when we have premeditated some plans to chuck something as far as we are capable of chucking.
He decided to fight her on the matter this morning, because the words NEVER HIT A GIRL don’t mean anything to him. He saw her as a worthy opponent, and he attempted some roundhouse kicks and throat punches.
H didn’t give up, though. She tried to trade him half of a grape for the binky.