My favorite personal holiday has come and nearly gone for the year—just a quarter of an hour left of March Forth.
What? You don't celebrate March Forth? You don't know what I'm talking about?
Obviously we need to walk together for a moment down memory lane . . . and see what we can find on the sidewalk.
Now, wasn't that educational? Don't you want to join me in Marching Forth? Well, as the smug founder of this great day, I grant you permission to celebrate it on the 5th this year, in case you missed your chance. Can't hold it against you if you simply didn't know, poor thing. In fact, why don't you spend the rest of the week Marching Forth? Just choose something worth marching for, preferably something new, and go for it.
What did I do today? I got in touch with my inner construction worker, and I found that I kind of like her. I am going to be sore tomorrow, but after moving furniture (including a 35-ton antique piano, with Rob's generous help) so the living room floor and also now the dining room floor can be sanded and painted and refinished this week (by yours truly, Queen of the March), and after a somewhat disheartening talk with Rob about construction/budget issues, I took hammer and crowbar in hand and started the next phase of change all by myself. Whack! Smack! Pry-pry-pry-PRY, creeeeeaaak, wham! Crash! Crumble! (Angels singing.) Whirrrr! OW!
I've got the molding and floorboards off now, and all but part of one door frame. I used the shop vac repeatedly to try to keep the fallout under some kind of control, but it's gotten beyond me. Thanks to Rob's careful and clever switch-flipping at the fuse box, I did not electrocute myself. I am now completely worn out. But man, am I marching.
I hope I can move tomorrow. I refuse to let lathe and plaster be the bedriddening of me. Maybe I need to swallow a nurse-dose of ibuprofen right now, just so I'm ready.
Tomorrow, I rent a 150-pound sander and spend the day with it. Please pray it doesn't turn on me.