Confessions of a Tenderfoot

We’ve figured out why we’re in such pain. It’s Home Depot.

Specifically, their concrete floors.

We spent over an hour both days there, and both times, we came out of the store, sat down in the car, and went “Unnnnghgghhhhh.” My dogs have moved beyond “barking,” straight past “howling,” and well into “whimpering uncontrollably.”

My question is, how do people WORK there? I mean eight hours, even in good shoes (and we’re both wearing quite decent shoes ourselves) and I’d be wheeling myself out on a handcart. Combined with some quality time spent on the ladder painting today, and James and I are like weary prizefighters duking it out for ownership of the Gimpfoot Belt.

But we got the kitchen walls painted. Which was exhausting. And while there was a lot of space to cover, it was space that went around walls and counters and cupboards and six freakin’ doorways and was generally a pain in the ass to tape off and edge and whatnot, so I’m hoping that tomorrow’s full day of painting will be easier, as the family room is just “tape floor and ceiling, apply roller,” with none of the fiddly bits.

James is deeply impressed by my taping technique. I figure ten years of masking off the edges of paintings oughta have SOME benefits.

It’s kinda funny. James is completely the handyman, and I am about as mechanically inclined as an injured rutabaga. This is fine by me, I’ve long since resigned myself to being an observer and hander of tools. I can tell a Phillips head from the other kind, and that’s good enough for me. I do not long to master the table saw. I took shop long, long ago, I am confident that, like scuba diving, if I really really wanted to, I could apply myself to it and master the art–but sheesh, who wants to?*

But the minute the paint came out, suddenly James was the one out of his depth–“How long do I stir this?” “How long should I rinse this?” “Did I get all the paint out?” “Will this dry darker?” “Does this need another coat?” “Is this okay?” I was amused. Every now and then, it’s nice to be the competent spouse instead of the one going “Is it supposed to be smoking like that?”

*This may be more a sign of my well-trained self-esteem than actual truth, mind you, but I don’t mention that to me.

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