Sometimes a Picture is Worth a 1000 Words

Why, Why, Why?????

Or...it seemed like a great idea at the time

Write it off to too many Margaritas or something - but about a month and a half ago I got a bug up my nether regions to paint my kitchen, dining room and hall (which all share a contiguous ceiling -thus requiring an all-or-nothing approach). I was tired of staring at the soot-stained walls (thanks to a wood stove that tends to back draft in moderately cold temperatures) and thought new wall colors in shades of bright orange, yellow, and sun-drenched golden browns (a shade alluringly called Spanish Hollow) would be the perfect offset to next year's guaranteed winter blahs.

It wouldn't be nothing but a thang, I figured, after looking at how much of my wall space was taken up by doors, windows, built-in book case, stove, fridge and kitchen cabinets.

Unfortunately, I neglected to look upwards. Because, after I spent all day yesterday washing the bleeding walls and ceiling, and all day today painting just the ceiling, it finally dawned on me that this "no big thang" amounted to painting half of my house's ceiling space. Have I ever mentioned that washing/painting ceilings is the job I hate most in the world?

A job that I confidently stupidly predicted I could do comfortably in four days - from break down, through prep, to putting back all my stuff in my cheerful new space - is now looking lucky to be done in eight days.

But the beauty of living alone is that frankly, I got no one but myself to blame for this particular cluster/F, because of course now that the house is torn apart, the ceiling is half painted, and over a hundred dollars worth of paint purchased, I am on a one-way ticket in this little junket.

Shoot me if I ever again think that just brightening up the walls would be a weekend job!

Coping With Another Seasonal DisorderOtherwise Known as Summer

I have full onset MAD, aka 'manic affective disorder.'

Who, really, other than that dedicated Ish (or maybe your weather isn't as nice down there yet) can stand to sit indoors and write about life right now? There are potatos to be got in the ground, old decrepit garden beds which-were-probably-grow-ops-back-in-the-day that need to be turned into growable space, chicken coops to be constructed, crap to haul out of the yard... oh, and there is drinking beer in the sun. One can't remain dedicated to the "Honey Do" list without a bit of reward.

I'm here, I'm running around like a maniac trying to get projects done... just like most of Squarebanks. There wasn't even room to park your pickup by the reuse area at the local transfer station Sunday afternoon.

Break Up - When Supposedly Tough Alaskans Finally Crack

As a group, Fairbanksans are among those Alaskans most likely to go on at length about how badass we are. It's the whole we-are-so-tough-for-living-in-the-40-below thing, a more potent form of the "We live in Alaska, therefore we are special" mindset."

Does any other state navel gaze so much? Do Coloradans refer to themselves constantly? Do all their online arguments end up with at least one participant referring to what Real Ohioans do or don't do?

There is a cottage industry of sorts based solely on how 'special' we are for our wilderburbian lifestyle - ranging from moose poop jewelry to the cartloads of books written by Alaskans about Alaskan living. Big Oil plays to it in the propaganda they produce to keep us in check. (And can you believe they're trottting out that b.s. argument that drilling the Refuge will lower the price at the gas pump?)

I will not deny engaging in such ... typically Alaskan behavior at times myself. Many a post has been devoted to chronicling the unique aspects of the cabindwelling life, i.e. the poopsicle, blue tarps and the challenges of a serious red squirrel infestation.

(To which: see the photo above. The location of my woodpile became a pond about two weeks ago. Upon my return to Squarebanks, I had the pleasure of wading out into the pond to retrieve what wood was left to chuck it out to higher, drier ground.) That'll teach me to select a site for the woodpile based on its proximity to the driveway as a pickup truck full of spruce idles there.

Whoops, disgressing.

But there is an equal and opposite reaction, my friends, come break up time. Suddenly, a community all to happy to point to the thermometer and pose for a television film crew in January is getting all unhinged about the late, and somewhat coolish spring. It's like all weather fortitude falls apart as soon as we can see summer within spitting distance.

Speaking of which, I saw my first mosquito a few nights ago. Such is my devotion to the authorial enterprise that I would have sat there and let it bite me to record the event, but sadly, the camera was nowhere within reach.

It's good to be back.

For Tomorrow: What the Hell is the Lege thinking?