Vicky would write this but, as you’ll see, she’s busy… painting.
For about four years, I lived in an apartment in Santa Ana. Some of you saw it. Some of you survived it. One thing about it (pertinent to this blog entry), I never painted the walls. Nope. Not once.
I’m not big on painting. Never have been. In fact, when I owned my home with Rosa, I only painted one room and that was the kitchen and that was because it was yellow from years of chain smokers who lived there before us. Notice I don’t say I painted the room with Rosa. Actually, I painted it with Sean Roberson. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have painted the ceiling! (He was tall, you see.) Sean was a huge help. He’d take me outside to have a cigarette every time I started ranting about how Rosa wouldn’t help.
Before that, all of my painting experience dwelled within my mom’s house. We used to paint very often when I was a child… and always white. My mom had an affinity for white; I don’t know why. We’d paint about once a year, it seems, and we’d always paint white.
How did we paint? With brushes and rollers, putting up a couple of layers and moving on along.
… which brings us to this week.
Vicky has a week off work and has decided to paint the guest bedroom/future-baby’s room. Words cannot express the attention she’s giving this room. She’s amazing. She has this single-minded energy… makes me wish I was a wall! She patches! She sands! She primers! She textures! She paints! On and On!
Me? I stand back and watch. I’m not getting in the middle of that!