Damn you, Martha Stewart: TO HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!

The living room painting is finally done, with the line on the crown molding at a close enough for Euclid, if Euclid worked for the Post Office.

Next up: sanding the back porch door frame, followed by liberal applications of putty and spackel, primer, and two coats of white outdoor latex. My favorite memory of growing up was the summer of 1986, when my Dad discovered that the sophets on the house had been stained with an indoor stain the previous time. Most of the summer was spent, neck craned, scraper and none-too-environmentally friendly "wash" dribbling down my neck. Do I mention that I love home maintenance?

After the door is done, it's deck wash, followed by stain. We're staining the railings white, and the decking gray this time. That's to be followed by painting the girlie room upstairs, so we can set up bunk beds. That entails Miss Somersault (age 9) parting with her "collections" (ie junk). I swear, the pack rat gene skipped a generation from The Dear One's father to her. We sent her up with a box of trash bags and instructions not to emerge until at least two are full. Needless to say, as I stand here typing in the kitchen, the sounds of vaulting off of the bed onto the chair across the room are pounding through the ceiling. And I tried to warn The Dear One about bunk beds and Little Miss Somersault but I was outvoted. She's going to be joined in there by Little Miss Stubborn (3 1/2), who is actually not only not a pack rat but travels light and is quite neat. It's going to be fun to watch.

Little Miss Stubborn got her arm cast off this week, btw, and is back to normal shenannigans. The same cannot be said about deranged neighbor Scott, who apparently broke his toe kicking NSA spies off his roof or something. I keep telling you Scott: the tin foil goes in the hat, the steel shank in the boot. Some people....