So tonight I feel exactly like I’m ready for a room of my own at the nursing home, complete with my own saggy recliner with a hand-knit afghan thrown over the back for good measure.
Just in case my legs get cold while I’m watching Murder, She Wrote.
If it’s a muscle in my body, it hurts. If it’s a ligament in my body, it has been stretched beyond what it’s capable of doing. All of this makes me sound like I just competed in a triathlon, but that would have been too easy. No, this weekend Hubs and I donned our hard hats and changed our names to Manual Labor.
I wish that it embarrassed me more to tell you that after building the exterior walls in this house, we settled in exactly like the pioneers would have done it, and then we painted all the trim, but that would be a bold-faced lie. Because the trim? Well, we purchased it in PRIMER WHITE. And then we nailed it to the bottoms of our walls. And, other than the nail holes, it didn’t look half bad, so we sort of adjusted our lives around it. We are THAT FAMILY, who has unpainted baseboards and a vintage 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser in the driveway, with the rusted out chassy and the lone flat tire.
People want to be us.
Especially because I’m sophisticated enough to use the word chassy in a sentence and know what it means. But I do give thanks that the Land Cruiser sits on its own three good tires and one deflated black orb, instead of being up on blocks.
With ten bloodhounds running around the property, treeing squirrels.
Because that would be overkill. The baseboard just keeps things real around here, people.
But this weekend… Well… we painted the baseboards in one room, because we didn’t want to be overachievers and tackle the entire house at one time. When you’re the family with the dilapidated vehicle in your driveway that makes your neighbors cringe, you can’t push the home decor button all the way down at once, or you get lightheaded. So one room it was.
But, to compound the workload, we also
finally painted the closet doors and… well... we even HUNG the closet doors, because they have been tucked away in a back corner of the basement all this time, because, as far as I can tell, having doors on a closet to hide your skeletons isn’t necessary when you only hang your jackets there.
We keep the Halloween decorations somewhere else.
We painted a dresser this weekend, and my love for painting is simply this: I would rather have my Suburban STOLEN, people, and have to deal with all the fall-out that involves the police report and YES! MY PURSE AND CREDIT CARDS AND EVEN MY LIBRARY CARD WERE IN THERE! than have to deal with a gallon of paint and a brush.
And then we moved some furniture around this weekend, too, and listen to this: For the first time in the history of FOREVER, we have a small TV in our room. I have fought that issue like a valiant knight in battle for the sixteen-point-five years that I have been married to Hubs, because Hubs? Well, he adores late-night TV shows that talk about the JFK assassination and UFOs and the Big Foot and World War I bi-planes and the invention of the Gatling gun. To say that Hubs’ and my taste in quality TV entertainment are at different ends of the spectrum is an understatement. I have really had zero-point-zero degrees of desire to have a TV in our bedroom, because I’m not sure that I could fall asleep easily with a narrator saying, “The Gatling gun saw only limited use in the Civil War, because it suffered from many different problems.”
Actually, on second thought, maybe Hubs’ TV shows would help me cure the insomnia I have these days.
But probably they would just make me want to poke a fork straight through my retina.
So last night, with every muscle in my body screaming from being crouched down, painting baseboard all weekend, I went to bed at PRECISELY 7:40. Not one minute earlier, and not one minute later.
(Yes, I HAD finished off my can of Ensure before I crawled into bed.)
Hubs and the boy were downstairs, watching a show about how strange men DO NOT manage to catch the Big Foot, and I was PLUM BANNED from the family room and the big screen TV, because I cannot be in the same room with them during that show without posing the question WHY HAS NO ONE EVER FOUND A BIG FOOT SKELETON? at least two hundred times.
So there I was in bed, and I looked at the quiet TV screen on the other side of the room, which had been sitting there for less than six hours, and I TURNED IT ON.
And, people! The Holiday, Pretty Woman and All About Steve were ALL playing on different channels AT! THE! SAME! TIME! I could hardly stand it, and spent more than an hour flipping through Vivian Ward’s trip to buy clothes and Mary Horowitz’ explanation that she wore her tall red boots every day because they made her toes feel like ten friends on a camping trip.
It was a chick-flick overload.
And sometime about 8:30 last night, when Vivian Ward was at the polo match, stomping divots, I remembered my blog for the first time all weekend.
Or rather, I simply remembered that I had PLUM FORGOTTEN to throw a blog post up.
And seeing as how my body felt like it was 120 years old, that’s not surprising.
Being elderly isn’t for the faint of heart, people. And I also know why people WITHOUT a 1972, rusted-out, one-flat-tire Land Cruiser sitting in their driveway ACTUALLY HIRE PEOPLE to paint their baseboards.
Happy Monday night.