But any excuse to delay is a good excuse *snort*. I’ve done half the abode, some of it (the screen room to be precise) with two coats, and yes there will be some before and after pics when it’s done. If you’re not familiar with my little project, check out my Facebook page, the albums with the Before and After, and Home Away from Home. I came south this year determined to eradicate the orange and yellow and I’m about halfway. Amazing how many people walking by stop and say “well isn’t that just a whole lot better” Bet your bippy it is. Between the painting and trying to get some decent gardens in, my back, shoulders, and knees are just about done in, however….I shall persevere. Who says women can’t manage on their own? My one concession so far has been to let Brother Bob (inside joke) install the new outside light fixtures. Didn’t think I wanted my hair straightened and my eyeballs fried.
It is amazing, however, what we can do, us helpless lil females, when something has to be done. I’ve learned how to build cupboards and furniture. Even fixed a tap. I’ve discovered the joys of duct tape, and how to tape up a paint brush to a long broom handle to reach those pesky places under the eaves. I’m as familiar with the aisles in Lowes and Home Depot now as any guy in overalls. And power washers? Woo hoo! Give me one of those over a nail gun any day.
This isn’t to say I’m entirely independent yet. I still have a few phobias…like pumping my own gas. It’s a genuine phobia, dating back to when I was 16 or so and my aunt invited me out to lunch. She drove a snazzy big car, wore spike high heels shoes, was always dressed to the nines, full makeup, hair, nails…the whole nine yards. So she came to pick me up looking like there should be paparazzi following her…mink coat, the spike heels…and we headed off for lunch at a ritzy restaraunt. She said “just have to make a quick stop” and pulled into one of the newfangled (back then, they were) self serve gas stations. Out of her classy big car she got, with her spike heels and her mink coat…popped the gas cap, shlepped the nozzle over to the tank, and started fillin’ ‘er up.
Wrong. Just wrong. That image has stayed with me…made me shudder…for 45 years. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with pumping your own gas, it’s just not something I can bring myself to do. My girlfriends are gently tolerant…they can laugh, I don’t mind…but they do the deed for me if we’re out shopping. The number of full serve stations are dwindling, to be sure, but I know exactly where all of them are in Southern Ontario. Down here on the Dark Side, there are NONE. Absolutely NONE, so it was a matter of some sphincter tightening to figure out how to get me and my car down here without having to beg and plead with complete strangers to fill my gas tank. Thank goodness my brother in law was only too happy to drive down with me and get in some golf. We actually had a great trip down, never stopped yakking all the way. Never had to twiddle radio stations to find something other than country twang on the drive through the Southern States (again, no offense to country music fans, and yes I know it’s been veering more into pop over the past few years, but there is always one die hard station that has songs about losing my truck and my dog and my hat and feelin so blue I damn near kicked the cat, cuz she left me, she left me, she left me. Yeah, well, three guesses why she left you if the truck came first on the list *snort*)
Anyway. Must go and do more painting. Blah. But the sooner I eradicate the rest of the orange…yes, orange paint on the exterior…the happier I will be.