It’s a beautiful spring day outside – our neighbor’s forsythia is in full exuberant bloom and my tulips are out – but I’m stuck inside.
I start painting the living room-dining room-kitchen today.
Mind you, I like painting. But the ceilings on our main floor are 9.5 feet high, and I am short. And unlike the bedrooms I’ve painted over the last couple of years, these walls are dirty. They require serious cleaning, as well as the moving of some very heavy furniture. We had bookcases and a pie safe and a secretary and an antique sideboard and a dining room table and a coffee table and couch and chairs and a piano to move. The piano, by the way, is a converted player piano built of ebony in the 1920s, still retaining most of its real-ivory keys, and this sucker is heavy. It took four muscle-y guys and me and a dolly to get it into the house.
The CEO and I managed to scoot it on its wheels far enough forward that I can clean the wall and set up a ladder for painting.
But, gah. Also, I am nervous that I am going to hate this paint. I hope not. It’s such a big, open room that I don’t think the deep green is going to make the space seem too small, and I think it will really set off the crown molding. I don’t think I’ll hate it… I really, really hope not.
I am wearing that greenest of green scents, Jacomo Silences.
I will be back tomorrow with, Lord willin’ and the crick don’t rise, a review of Denyse Beaulieu’s book, The Perfume Lover, and of the associated fragrance by Bertrand Duchaufour and L’Artisan, Seville a l’Aube.