"Just slap a bunch of spackle on," I had said. "Don't worry about being all prissy and neat. You're just going to sand it in a few hours anyway."
So for six-months-or-however-long we've had a sloppy, thickly and cavalierly applied spackle spot above my Sewing Table, which incidentally I haven't touched in six-months-or-however-long. Actually, I do remember the last time I touched it. It was just before Christmas, when I was making the hobo bags I
And in one fell swoop, I've let you in on three of my secret shames: 1) The spackle spot; 2) My tendency to give up on things that I don't excel at naturally; 3) The fact that it is now June and I still haven't given the girls in my office their Christmas presents. Come to think of it, those are all of my secret shames.
It's the spackle spot that really gets to me, though. The almost-finished Christmas presents I can squirrel away for another six months, until the girls in work forget that I didn't actually give them anything last Christmas; the lack of sticktoitivity I can ignore—at least for another six months, when I revisit the cursed (and that was two syllables, by the way: curse-ed) hobo bags.
But the spackle spot. It gazes at me accusingly every time I sit down to blog. Every time I go to
Erin: [leaving computer room] La ti da, my life is under control and aren't I so clever.
Spackle Spot: [whispers unintelligably]
Erin: [stops, peeks head back in computer room] What was that?
Spackle Spot: Oh, nothing. You know, just wondering.
Erin: [defensively] Wondering what?
Spackle Spot: Ha ha, nothing at all.
Erin: Yeah, that's what I thought, biatch. [goes to leave again, hears Spackle Spot murmuring]
Spackle Spot: Sleep tight, Miss Has It Together. I'll be here in the morning.
All this is to say, I KNOW I haven't posted photos of the bathroom renovation yet. I KNOW, OKAY? It's just that my parents were in town all week last week and so we didn't make time to hang up the new shelving and so all my hair products and equipments are on the floor and my makeup is stacked up in a basket on the back of the toilet and I haven't made the shower curtain yet from the fabric I bought on discount at Hancock and I just can't let you see
So please stop talking amongst yourselves about how I haven't posted the photos yet. You can be certain that my empty promises haunt me.
P.S. Check out my mom's retaliatory comment "in the wee box" (that was for you, Mouthy Irish Woman) to my last post, about how the 'rents are constantly breaking stuff.