Forget university life, when a move every 8 months meant repairing all holes in the apartment wall from the posters and photos that described every minute detail of the previous year and the best fix was a tube of toothpaste applied with an old ruler. Forget the first room that I was allowed to paint, because I actually owned the place, and that it was only after the fact when nail holes and wall imperfections were discovered. And definitely forget the poorly hung ‘real’ art – apparently too heavy for the drywall alone to support – or the gaping chasms left after the removal of a nasty fireplace mantle that were picked, poked and sanded into acceptability.
Mr.Q painted the downstairs hallway this weekend, and is prepped to do the upstairs hallway this week. Since ventilation is an issue and I am now nearly 34 weeks along, I get relegated to taping and, most importantly, polyfilling [yes, it’s magically now a verb. deal.] Damn, I love that stuff. I can smooth out a wall with the best of them now [in my head, at least] and watch drywall blemishes disappear before my very eyes. It’s kind of like those infomercials for undereye cream or acne medication, except that this is actually working.
Best of all, though, my back hallway is painted. That only took nearly 7 years of living here to get around to. That, and a well timed jibe in front of the chiropractor.
And me, standing there, with a bucket of PollyFilla and a spatula.
Last pimp for the renter: go check out The Weatherman [left sidebar – you can’t miss it] in the last day of his stay!