Last night, I got more hours of sleep than I normally get in 3 days. An accomplishment, indeed; or perhaps sad. Sleeping usually means you miss out on something else going on. I'm the kind who likes to be in on everything. Gets me into trouble more often than not. And it might maybe make me annoying sometimes to a lot of people. Trying to change that. All the activity in the world means nothing when you no one enjoys it with you, no? Cliche, yes, I know; but cliches are repeated so much because... they're true. And they resonate with a wide range of people. Ergo, they're popular. And popular eventually means overused. And overused over time means ..... ta-da! cliche.
News, news. Spring is in the air, and the adjacent fever has snuggled deep down inside and is making me restless. So what to do about it? Last week, it was washing the bathroom walls. (Which, by the way, less than a week later were already filthified.) This week, it was painting that bookshelf that's been sitting and waiting for probably almost a year. It's collected all sorts of things on its three awkwardly-set and now bowing shelves. I swear, I have so many books, the library's jealous. I think I'm going to take inventory as I reassemble the danger zone that used to be my bedroom. At ten o'clock last night, I was required to take five minutes just to clear myself some space to sleep on my own bed. (P.S. Stacks of books look so much bigger on the bed than on the floor. It was traumatic, looking at it all on the bed.)
Among the things I found was my piggy bank. Well, I didn't find it; I just sort of rediscovered it. Or was reminded of its existence. Yes, I have a piggy bank. And a cute one it is, too. It was a present from a very dear (much older; the kind that can afford to dote upon young ones) friend several years ago. But you know what's even better than finding a cute piggy bank? Finding money in it. Yeah, you guessed it, didn't you? Naturally. When you think of a piggy bank, money is typically the next step. I have yet to count whatever it is I still have in that thing. However, I'm fairly certain I won't be disappointed. May that be a hint to ye.
Oh! and another of the Most Interesting Finds Known to Man: scratch papers containing forgotten names and prehistoric email addresses. I barely remember who some of these people even are. So. Sorry Josh Whoever-you-are (couldn't pronounce the guy's last name, I swear, if I were a phonetics expert). You never did get something from me in your inbox. Your loss. Or rather, gain, when you consider the sheer volume of this blog post. As I recall whatever fuzzy memory I might have of this mystery guy, I seem to remember he wasn't much of a reader anyway.
On to the original point of the discussion. Who knew a simple bookshelf could be difficult to paint? I do this for a living and have never painted a bookshelf. Somehow, that's simply wrong. Can't say that anymore, though. Yay experience.
Painting, you know, is more than just slapping on the gooey coloured stuff and assuming it will stick. There are tricks to doing it right. Many little things that are easy to miss and that you have to watch out for. It's what separates the men from the boys in this business. Things like streaks in the brushstrokes and such. The job has to be perfect. And if it's not perfect, I will notice. I'm a perfectionist like that. But then, so is my boss and mentor. It's why she gets the high-end jobs that make the big bucks. Rich people like their fancy things done up right. Can't blame them. I wouldn't pay a bunch of money for a job just any old person could do. Show some finesse, and maybe you'll be worth my while to pay you.
We had cottage cheese in the house this afternoon. I had some for lunch. We no longer have any cottage cheese in the house. In some cases, I do eat it right out of the carton. Don't say it. I know. It's bad. But I usually end up eating most of it anyway, so why make myself more dishes to wash? Relax, though. I decided to be civilized this time. We also had some tropical fruit cocktail ready to go, so I had that, too. I do believe I'm the only person I know of who eats tropical fruit cocktail primarily for the papaya.
One fantastic thing about spring is that barefoot season makes a gigantic comeback. I barely wear shoes at all in the summer. For lots of reasons, but what matter the reasons? I just prefer it. I promised my mama I'd get married in bare feet, once. It was really more of a dare, on her part, but it sounded like a good idea, so why not? It could be romantic, in some way. I'll find a way to make it work. Resourcefulness. Yeah, let's call it that. But self-inflicted, since nobody actually forced me to not wear shoes.
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