And who could blame, him, really. I mean, look at it:
So I did what any awesomely fabulous, generously considerate wife would do.
I painted his wall.
You know the drill:
Prep . . .
I pushed all the bedding to my side, and covered Mistah's side with a dropcloth, which is why the bed looks like such an embarrassingly confusing mess.
Cut . . .
First coat . . .
Touch up my side while the paint can is open . . .
Final coat . . . and voilà.
There were more weekend projects, too, of course . . .
(*What? So sometimes I break things when I fix things. Then I fix those things. Circle of Life, baby.)
And, oh yes, there was a lot of missing of Dad during said projects, sigh.
Because unlike Mistah, who lived in fear of his Dad getting the chalk out to list a weekend project on their kitchen blackboard, I love projects. I like being productive. I like the instant gratification of a painted wall or a caulked bathroom sink.
Plus perhaps my Dad was easier to learn from during childhood projects. I think weekend projects with ol' Bill Senior entailed a lot of swearing, and a lot of duct tape.
|Bill Sr. was, however, the father of the Schneider Can, |
just one of his many awesome legacies.
Although painting the northern environs of the bedroom, and filling in various cracks and holes and gaps were fun projects, they were not the only projects I had going on this past weekend, not by a long shot.
No, I also completed the most onerous, humbling, enervating, emasculating and soul-sapping project in the history of the human race.