Apparently, the last time this house had any effort put into it with regard to its decor, it was the mid-eighties. All the switchplates and bathroom light fixtures are brass, a material I hate with the heat of a thousand suns, the computer room's walls are painted in an alarming apple green, which is actually more remiscent of the color of a Girl Scout uniform, and the part of the house that is carpeted is a lovely forest green. Also, remember when everyone back then was decorating in mauve and "country" blue? Yeah, me too. I may or may not have been guilty of it myself. Which is why I suppose whoever took the time to stencil seashells all along the perimeter of the top border of the bathroom walls decided to go with the blue.
I'd like to find that person right now and bitch-slap her. Except that would require energy and strength I do not have at the moment.
I figured since the bathroom isn't that big, I'd primer over the godforsaken shells and after an hour or two be ready to paint. Wrong. It took not one, not two, but THREE coats of primer just to make them disappear enough so that when I paint the walls "Khaki" I feel okay the ghost of the seashells won't show through. I want absolutely no trace left of the shells.
Since they were at the very top of the walls, I had to stand on the toilet, the sink and a stool to do the job and by some miracle I didn't fall. I fully expected to, so that was a nice surprise. By the time I was done, about two hours had passed and any hope of doing the actual painting was shot for the day because I want to make sure the primer is completely dry and also I'm a little sore from contorting myself while simultaneously trying to balance and reach above my head. I didn't feel bad for not working out today, let's put it that way.
So painting will commence tomorrow, since we got the last-minute governor reprieve phone call from his parents letting us know they wouldn't be back from the beach until late in the afternoon so we are excused from going over there for lunch. Lord, I owe you one for that one. I hate to say it, but when that happens I feel like a kid who unexpectedly got to stay home from school, like for a snow day or something.
One question and then I'm going to fall into a drug-induced coma. Why is it that just because you're born with a dick are you able to sit around, watch football and drink beer all day without giving a second thought to the fact your wife is bustling around doing all sorts of housework? Like, no guilt whatsoever - you're totally fine and enjoying the day - even singing from time to time. I think I have the solution, though it could've come from all the fumes I inhaled while priming today. I'm going to go to either an adult store or website, purchase a strap-on, put it on and see what it's like to spend a day of guilt-free leisure.