Paint chips, oil cans, and cardboard

[da]

This was a good weekend. Saturday afternoon was spent in a flurry of activity that included such un-sexy, yet oh, so exciting activities as scraping peeling paint from the bathroom ceiling, and oiling the garage-door.

We've lived here three years. Why didn't it occur to me that our garage door was easily fixed so it didn't make that tooth-grindingly annoying screech every time it opened and closed?

I grew accustomed to it. Much the same way, I'm sure, as the parent of a whiny three-year-old child grows accustomed to the noise pollution that causes every other adult on the bus to grit their teeth and try to mentally will them to get off at the next stop.

Of course, not one of our neighbours has ever told us: "you know, your garage door is so loud that we can hear it from our bedroom every Sunday morning when you go out at 9:30 and it makes us want to walk over with our own oil can and fix it ourselves."

No, instead I'm sure they muttered into their pillows or dream fantasies of marching out in their bathrobe and handing us an oilcan, and turning without a word and marching grimly back to bed.

It took no more than 5 minutes to oil. Well, three years plus five minutes.

The good news is, we will have a finished fireplace in less than a week- no more cardboard box! Progress, I tell ya.

Comments

Comment from neighbour Lesley

[(Anonymous)]

Rob and Flo, the lawyers up on Avondale, tell a story about cooking down tomatoes over a wood fire one Sunday in September. Apparently this is an Italian thing. So it's sunny and quiet and lovely and very civilized, cooking down the tomatoes, and all of a sudden Harry (who died last year, in the house across from us) throws open his bedroom window and yells down, "Quit chopping wood, ya dang fool!" Harry was a great guy. Sometimes when I see Rob and Flo I yell that, just to see them laugh: "Quit chopping wood, ya dang fools!