2. Fixing stuff. (Stick with me on this one, it goes on for quite a long time.) It turns out when you hang painting and pictures up on walls, it tends to make holes. Holes in walls of houses you are leaving isn't good. I have to go around spackling the holes with this stuff that resembles very light and fluffy cake frosting. (Don't taste it, it does not taste like cake frosting. As a matter of fact, it tastes like...I didn't taste it.) Then you gotta wait for it to dry. Then you sand it, which requires you to find sanding paper or the blocks in the garage which has been taken over by boxes from the attic, which means I CAN'T FIND ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND IT'S REALLY PISSING ME OFF.
So I go to Home Depot and buy some sanding blocks. Then I come home and sand the little dried spackle, which does not taste like cake frosting. Then I realize that I have to spot paint the little white area because the paint is not white. So I go to the garage and discover that the can of paint that IS that color has dried to the consistency of tar and is not usable. Thus I return to Home Depot where the guy attempts to sign me up for a program that will ensure that I will never have to bring antique paint can lids in again in order to match up the paint because it will be on a record at Home Depot for the rest of my existence. (The CIA, FBI, NSA, PTO, and the Girl Scouts will all know about my paint/home improvement preferences. "So, Mrs. Bevill, I see that in 2006 you painted your kitchen/dining room 'Raging Purple Wurple.' Hmm.")
|Yes, this is the purple in my daughter's room. I admit it.|
It's not just purple. It's **PURPLE**!!
HOWEVER, the tool chest is blocked by the lawnmower, the 1954 Chevy Rust-O-Shit/combination-storage-device Truck, boxes of crap that have been moldering in the attic since the last time we moved, and piles of "outdoor" toys for my daughter. Let's just say that if my back hadn't been hurting already the lawnmower would have been thrown a block away. In fact, once I had negotiated the maze-o-doom, I did not go back to the garage to find one of those paint-stirring sticks because I said several four-lettered words instead. I used one of HIM's Craftsmen screwdrivers as a stirrer, as well as a can-opener. I wiped it off because I didn't want HIM to know. (Toilet paper doesn't wipe paint off very well and I don't recommend that you flush toilet paper inundated with wall paint in your potty. DON'T DO IT!) Anyway, I finally finished that part and painted over the holes in the walls. (Told ya number 2 was long.)
3. Finding boxes without buying them. I think stores have gotten suspicious of people who ask for boxes. They ask questions of you. "Why do you want the boxes?" "What will you do with the boxes?" "Suppose I give you a box and some poor homeless person comes in and needs a box?" "Will you recycle the box?" "Will you sign an affidavit to that effect?"
4. Having lots of assistance. This area of moving is always a blast. Now that HIM has absconded to Alabama, leaving me in charge of THE FREAKING MOVE, I have our eight year old daughter, Cressy, and I have her moron cat, Megaroy as my primary assistants. Let's just say that their ideas of assistance differ wildly from my idea of assistance. Cressy likes to make forts out of boxes. That doesn't sound so bad does it? Except she cuts holes in the boxes for doors and windows and then, well, you can't pack things into that box again. EVER. (It's bad when the stuff falls out of the hole she's made.) You can try telling her that the box is not a fort, but who wants her to flash those big blue eyes at you? (It's kind like when you spank a Cocker Spaniel puppy, except I never did that.)
|"What box? I don't see a box. I'm too stupid to see a box."|
|"Hey, this box looks exactly like the litter box."|
Next blog, same Bat time, same Bat channel.