My intensive painting days did not last for the three days I expected them to. They lasted FOREVER. Well, or a week, whichever comes first. Technically, I’m still not done: I have a door to paint, some shelves to finish, and a cabinet to both primer and paint. Not to mention some touch-ups around the ceiling where I was so eager to get it DONE that I put tape on paint that was not quite dry yet, therefore ripping off the paint when I removed the tape. Sigh. And we still need to do something about the countertop — tile, I hope.
My new home is still very much a work in progress. The furniture currently consists of a bed and my camp chair, plus a box that I’m using as a step stool for Zelda to get on and off the bed. The bed might have been a mistake: I bought a 14-inch mattress, which didn’t seem huge, and an 18-inch frame, which also didn’t seem huge. Put them together and you’ve got 32 inches, which also doesn’t seem huge. But it’s closer to three feet than two, and while Zelda could have made the jump easily five years ago, it’s a little much for her now. I’m also, sadly, not sure my quite senile dog will be able to figure out how to use a step. She’s pretty foggy these days. I may be lifting her up and down a lot. But the mattress is comfortable, and the frame was always intended as a temporary solution, so it’s not an insurmountable problem.
It felt pretty strange to be moving out of Serenity. I… well, I just spent a long time thinking about that instead of writing. Suffice to say, my feelings are complicated. What a weird time it is. The other day Suzanne and I were sitting outside on the back patio, enjoying the sunshine and eating something — possibly gluten-free chocolate cupcakes with mint buttercream icing? — and I said, “I’m quite enjoying our apocalypse.” Whenever I’m thinking — about the state of the world, about politics, about the economy, about my son throwing me away like I’m trash — I’m deeply scared and desperately hurt. But whenever I stop thinking and just exist, my life is delightful. Moral of the story: more existing, less thinking. It’s not very good for my writing career to be existing, not thinking, but there’s a roof over my head and chickens clucking next door, so I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Tomorrow being a metaphorical future day that is not today, not actually the period of time twenty-four hours from now. During that period of time, I will probably be painting. Or maybe tiling. Definitely doing something to make my already adorable tiny house even more adorable.
Speaking of which — how about some pictures? These are the same shots from my earlier post.