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| "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.
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| I don't even have a caption for this. |
