|"First you get the sugar, then you get the power..."|
It started last Friday. It won’t stop until next Sunday. We are at the new home until the sun sets every day, all while I battle it out with food poisoning (Thanks Subway! You disgusting hive of vile bacteria-infested meat product. Hugs!). We soak and scrape the ceilings. We spackle and sand them. We dust, tape, prime, and paint them. (I hate cottage-cheese bumpy popcorn ceilings. I see them in the street, in the carpet, in the clouds, in my dreams.) We’re pulling out cabinets. We’re tearing down wallpaper. We are cleaning, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming.
Physical labor is not romantic. You can work out at the gym every day of the week for years. It doesn’t matter. You will hurt in weird places. Your hands will be sliced, papercut, splintered, blistered, bruised, and callused. And that’s just in the first 15 minutes. You’re going to be sanding the ceiling for another four hours. No matter what protection you wear you will get paint dust in your eyes, your pores, your throat, and your soul.
Maybe you’ll think about what your grandfather and great-grandfathers did for a living. Maybe you’ll consider what our country’s migrant laborers do for a week’s wage that’s less than a day’s pay for you.
And then you will go home and drink whisky. Scratch that. I will go home and drink whisky. (Take that, food-borne virus!)
My brain feels different. Maybe it’s the paint dust. My nerves are numbed and I can't think beyond what we’re building. Amongst the tension, there's a calm certainty. Kristen and I will own the end result. Whatever it may be.
And maybe, just maybe, we will report back with tips and pics.
And Single Malt Reports.
|I don't even have a caption for this.|