My house smells like a chemical factory because they came yesterday and stained all the wood on the patio cover. We've all got a little buzz going from the fumes. I don't get those druggies that choose to inhale fumes from paint cans--it's not a pleasant feeling. (FYI. If you're ever forced to choose between having your house stink like bacon or wood stain fumes, go with bacon everytime.)
I took this from between the slats of the kitchen blinds--I felt like I was doing covert spy surveillance...or maybe I just felt like a reverse Peeping Tom. Luckily are windows are a bit mirrored from the outside so they couldn't see my giant camera pointed at them. However, it would've been awesome if they would have seen me and started doing funny poses. Too bad.
And later today the mystery of what colors I ended up choosing for the concrete will be revealed...to me and everyone else. They're coming in on their snowmobiles Friday to seal the concrete--which supposedly changes the colors a bit. Meanwhile, I've started painting a variety of samples on the exercise room walls to decide what color to repaint in this weekend. Jeremy gets nervous now whenever I start a sentence with "I really want to..." Cuz lately it's involved recarpeting, reorganizing, rearranging furniture, redecorating, pretty much add re- to any verb that requires alot of physical effort, straining and the herniation of a variety of body parts, and of course $$.
Plus, he really DETESTS painting. Hates it. With a passion that burns deep to his soul. And he gets cranky. Cranky like a two year old three hours past naptime. Make that a hungry two year old three hours past naptime. That you are refusing to feed a bite of the ice cream cone that you're licking right in his face. Cranky. So I'll do the painting and he'll do the kid duty. No brainer for me. But that means I'll spend my time after I get done painting putting the rest of the house back together.
My website surfing has involved a MORE important necessity for the patio. Seating. A table. You know, stuff you have to have BEFORE you invite 10 people over for a BBQ next weekend. Not that Jeremy realized that. Apparently we're all supposed to stand, encircling his new smoker and holding our plates in awe, marveling at its ability to produce such delectable meats. With the toxic stench of freshly applied stain burning through our nostrils and melting our brain cells. No, that probably won't affect the flavor of the meat, OR WILL IT?
I've digressed. I have a small habit of that. This is the set I'm currently liking. I like that they try to reassure me by telling me it's a best seller. Like, "Hey! You're not crazy! Other people have like this enough to buy it too! Come on! Just click 'purchase' now! You're not alone." Anyway, I like that it's square. And there's no glass to clean or have one of the kids crash through, requiring tons of stitches and the possibility of gallons of blood staining the new concrete.
Gotta jet--the boys just spread an entire one of those jumbo pack of 1000 cottony, colored hair rubberbands across the living room. I think they're rebelling because we had to miss our weekly playgroup today to babysit the concrete guys. Or not.