On a Scale of One to Ten: I am Dolphin.

Seriously, on a scale from one to ten, one being: I'm awake, I put the right shoes on the right feet; and ten being: Oh my gosh, that guy looked like Gerard Butler (when in fact the guy in question was a coat rack); I find myself settling around: Dolphin.

10 hours in a room and hallway, constantly rolling wet paint over textured walls can do that.  I'm not sure if it's an after affect of the non-existent, non-detectable paint fumes my eyes seemed to pick up.  Have you ever tried to stare opened eyed at a mountain of snow?  No?  Try it for 10 hours and that's about what my eyes felt like.

After messing up in every way possible, even while being told what not to do, I got the hang of paint rollers, paint liners, drop cloths and the fact that paint will never come out of clothing. . . .ever.  I really did find out the depth of patients one needs to handle beginning painters.  I have none.  My brother-in-law has an incredibly deep reservoir of patience that I never thought possible.  He never took away the roller and put me in the corner (which I did mentally) nor did he kick me out of the project and tell me to go play in traffic, he just kept on painting, talking and leading me by example.  I know once or twice he probably wanted to pat me on the head (with a folding chair) and say it's okay.  By the time the day had run it's course, we had one bedroom and one hallway coated with three to four coats of paint (including primer).  Now it's on to the baseboards, shelves and carpet.  Do worry brother-in-law, I won't roll the roller backwards.

While spending all my time yesterday industriously working, I came to this realization.  In high school, while other males of my age were studiously memorizing different teams, players, moves, logistics, scores, records and other such things I spent my time memorizing and learning to recognize bands.  Particularly 90's rock bands (I blame my father).  Brother-in-law had his phone playing Pandora.com and eight times out of ten I could name the band.  I don't know whether I should be proud of myself or ashamed.

On the upside of all this, I escaped to Target for an adventure with my wife.  We both were a dolphin on the tiredness scale and thought we should get some Christmas shopping done.  So naturally we came out of the grocery isles with a sweater, salted caramel hot chocolate, chocolate Tim Tams, bagels, Ovaltine and regretfully no tuna fish.

While in line for the checkout next to the couple expecting twins, buying a body pillow, our bangled and pierced cashier twittered over all the pregnant women in her line, telling everyone her friend was pregnant, how she was going to spoil it, baby sit it, love it, squish it, bounce it, turn it into puddy and press it against the Sunday funnies, and so forth.  Hopefully the baby will survive the encounter, and come back unpierced.

I wonder if they will ever make a body pillow the shape of a P. . . .for Pregnancy.

Oh, and speaking of Ovaltine, I don't think I have ever experience it's chocolaty goodness until today.  I have to say between huge gulps all I could think of were these:

I love my life.