Besides covering up the Nutjob’s handy-work, aka, the romper room staircase, I’ve been slowly painting the rest of our little house.
It’s slow go at the moment because this is a solo task and I’ve got other stuff to be doing. But, it’s getting done, and as the Boyfriend reminds me, I’ve got time.
Not to toot my horn (toot toot, beep beep) but I’m pretty darn good at this painting stuff. My edging is superb. And each night when the Boyfriend comes home he takes a look at my work and says, “Good job Skippie” (the Boyfriend calls me Skippie). And then after further inspection he’ll say, “You’re a really good painter for a girl.” The Boyfriend has no idea how insulting this is. The same way he has no idea that whenever he says that girls shouldn’t play football (soccer) I’m secretly hatching plots to turn all his whites pink.
So yeah, I’m a really good painter. The strange thing is that my Grandfather was a painter and wallpaper-er (I’m positive that’s not a word, but nonetheless, that’s what he was). Is it possible that somehow my Grandfather’s skills passed down into me making an imprint on my DNA and whenever I pick up a paintbrush I’ve got his genes guiding me along the way? Weird thought yes, but I’ve got a lot of painting to do and I appreciate all the help I can get. Even if it’s from my dead Grandfather.