The paint project still isn't out of the closet. The trim (fuzzy duckling) is done. I haven't been keeping a log, but I'm betting I've spent more time on my knees scraping drips off the bare concrete than painting trim, but the boss doesn't pay well enough to fire me, so I am letting that be okay. The meditative action (scraping with my putty knife) from a humble position (it's a floor, silly) and sound of metal scraping on smooth stone is soothing my exile weary senses. One of the things I like about my eccentricly finished concrete floors (not fit for a feature article in the Better Homes and Garden magazine) is that things like dried paint drips scrape off easily and completely. It sure helps ease my dust allergy. Dust bunnies can still hide in in corners and under furniture, but the dust bunny round ups are quick and complete. As I have scraped off the paint drips, I have even finding spots of metaphorical fun in scraping the fuzzy duckling off the concrete. . .

I started cutting in the corners on the walls (September morning) sometime yesterday. Quite a few blahs were hitting the domestic drama spotlights yesterday. Big surprise, huh? Those blahs were from my husband and my son. Wasn't feeling the DIL's husband in my son this time. The blah list seemed to be coming straight from the heart of the son who let go of my hand as he grew into a man. Paint drips don't scrape off of fresh paint as easily they scrape off concrete, but . . Sometimes the human drama really is more important than a few drips of September morning on the fuzzy duckling. . .

I like to sing when I work. It helps set the tempo of my work. Keeps the synchronicity balanced? Sometimes the songs I sing come from distant echoes. One of the ones which has been rolling through the paint job stumped the YouTube search engine. The closest I found in my cursory search is http://dragon.sleepdeprived.ca/songbook/songs5/S5_148.htm .

Of course I had to add a verse. The verse I have been singing in my closet came to me during the 300 mile detour that resulted from my over-confidence that I could navigate the Interstate without a map or Smart Phone navigator. Of course the newest verse is gonna get more play time than the verses from another decade. Make that, "Another millennium." This is a song from . . . not quite sure where. . . It goes:

Zoom, zoom, zoomity zoom
Zoom a zoomin' zoomy zoom ----zoomy zoom
It's a lick on a stick guaranteed to make me sick
Zoomin' through the old gridlock

Thanks for letting me ramble, guys. The non-metaphorical goal is to get fewer drips of September morning on my fuzzy duckling as I finish painting the corners of my closet. Yes, Mister Twain. Truth really is more creative than fiction can afford to be. I am reading those names off the can labels I bought at a hardware superstore. . .

Off to see if I have the focus to watch my paint drips. Wish me luck.