Apparently, I’m an evil science experiment of cloning from Martha Stewart and Scarlett O’Hara. Yesterday, I hung new rattan roller blinds in a couple of upstairs rooms, and took down the curtains in some. Today, I’ve decided to disassemble a piece of furniture and recover it with said curtains. Also, I took down an exterior door that had been broken by the wind storm we’re having, so I have to find a replacement door, and I guess hang it myself, because the “professional” I hired to hang the last one was obviously a congenital idiot. (T’was an expensive door, too.) Do you have any idea how heavy a door full of glass is? Me either, but damn, it’s not light. I’d guess 80 pounds maybe? As Chaos would have it, of course, the door frame around the glass part broke in half as the boy was trying to come in, the gust of wind caught him and the door, slammed the door against the brick corners of the house, and tossed the boy ass over teakettle. (The Boy is fine…but the door…not so much.)
I’ve removed everything from the mantle and am redecorating a huge swath of the living area, I’ve rearranged all the inherited china in display cabinets, I’ve polished silver, cleaned windows, sponged off baseboards, vacuumed everything I can reach, and am stringing philodendren around the giant landscape windows. Note…if one ever gets the idea that one should disentangle a 25 year old philodendren that has been left to its own devices for a decade to entwine itself around the baker’s stand upon which it lives…DON’T. Some of the strands may be 50 feet long. Crazy. Good lord, talk about your Gordian knots. It wasn’t going well at all until I explained to the plant that I did, in fact, own scissors. Amazing how well it cooperated after that.
I’m cleaning, I’m rearranging, I’m recovering furniture, I’m picking up paint chips at decorator stores, I turned down chocolate…Who the hell am I…and what have they done with the real me?