Got out of the city on Saturday; went to Yardley, to a farm, to celebrate fall even though the temperature right now is stubbornly summer. All due to Melissa’s keeness to get into the changing season. What a good idea. So come on, fall, let’s get with the program.
Passed some notable billboards. For a liposuction clinic: a bikini hanging on a clothesline, “We suck so you don’t have to.” Also: “Mitzva mania; Preserve the world today!”
Loaded up on apple products at the farm. Apple cider, apple butter, apple jelly, apples, and don’t forget the apple pie. Also, festive fall gourds to sit up on a phone book in the front window sill. Perhaps Milie will paint faces on them.
The apple cider tastes fabulous with Sailor Jerry spiced rum, which I drank in the basement while using a box cutter to strip white latex paint off the 100 year old cast iron heating vents that I pulled out of the floor in the afternoon. They were filthy, and rusty, and the duct work was full of crap.
There was sawdust, regular dust, dirt, splinters, 2 x 2 chunks of the hardwood floor, a Bic pen cap, and a piece of one of the vents all down there. Also, along with the screws, bricks, and a dried up paint roller that we inherited from the contractors with the house, I now have a shoe shine brush that I pulled out from underneath my living room floor.
After a lot of Comet, a coat of Java Matte Finish Rustoleum, and half of a Sunday swearing and throwing pieces on the floor in frustration, wishing I’d written down how the fucking things went back together, they look quite nice. If I don’t say so myself. I even painted the tops of the screws. That, my contractor friends who remodeled an entire kitchen but left a single switch plate without a switch plate cover, is what we call a finishing touch.
Too bad there’s still the second floor.
For doing the dirty work, that day I got a fair amount out of the inconsistently chore-reticent Milie, who slips between fastidious and blind to mess depending on the task, the day of the week, and how annoyed she is with her homework. Though I suppose similar things could be said of me.
By this evening we were back to our usual line of argument. “I left you the kitty litter paw prints,” I say. “I thought you’d want to be involved in the process.”
She’s spent the day painting an angel on a piece of wood seamstressing her own wings. “Why didn’t you clean them?” she says accusingly.
“I cleaned everything else.”
“I cleaned the kitchen.”
“So did I.”
“Well, it’s not my fault it got dirty again.”