After a work week from hell, which only got better when I got a lift to the golf course with Brian C., and where we said goodbye to Will C. who went to a place that’s paying him… uh… a lot more than he was making …. I came home with the Dalai Jarmo and Susanna (may they be blessed and adored) and found out that much work had been accomplished.
The master bedroom is now empty of everything except the clothing in the closet and three pieces of furniture. Katie’s room proceeds apace but needs more ceiling paint and a top coat. Keith’s room ditto. Right now Paul’s working on electrical and Dave’s painting up a storm.
I’m off to Benjamin Moore in New West to buy more paint and another cutting brush, after which I’ll be coming back here and emptying cupboards etc so the menfolks can move the fridge and paint behind it. Then I will be doing whatever I’m physically capable of doing to speed things along as well as any domestic stuff like keeping food happening.
I am happy to report that two weeks of sitting on an exercise ball at work have strengthened my abs and lats to the point that my back is much better. I’m working on an ear infection but it’s better this morning than it was last night (I was practically in tears when I begged T3s from Keith) and if I spike a fever I’ll whip off to the clinic for antibiotics. I’m thinking of making some eyebright tea and applying it – thus far I’ve been managing with hydrogen peroxide.
Now to find some clothes to change into, ha ha, and I’m off. Pic of St Patrick stolen from Wikipedia. I meant to post this yesterday but I forgot to take it off draft mode.
Forwarded to Jenn to enlighten her schooling at Brown U. All she knows about St. Patrick’s day is that lot of people go to the Irish Pubs to drink beer. Poor girl was picked for a runway show and the co-ordinator told her she picked the models to be representative of different ethnics groups. Oh says Jenn “I’m Canadian”. Tolerantly, the Den mother said “Yes dear but you are part Irish” Stunned, Jenn came home to tell me this and I told her, “Yes, dear you are a good bit Irish”. This re-inforces another point — our children don’t seem to listen to us.
Me am part Irish, part Scot, goodly part English, goodly part Friesian, and that means that the blood of the Picts and the Norse and the Gaels flows like Guinness (or whatever …) through my veins. And you can’t be part Irish without being part Viking, that’s just not the way the bloodlines work. Whoo hoo!
Reminds me of a funny story. Katie was all of six when we told her about her ancestry. She listened, round eyed, and then – such is her poker face – she insisted that she had Chinese in her. With loving patience Paul and I attempted to explain that this was not possible. Again she insisted. Again we remonstrated. Again, she insisted. About the time Paul and I were ready to rip our hair out she announced that of course we had Chinese in us – we’d eaten at Chow’s that week. I thought Paul and I would bust a gut laughing.