I knew this weekend would be tough. We'd hoped to get to the Women's March on Washington, but we woke up too late and wound up turning around at Ft. Meade. But that's OK. We had a nice lunch and joined a local rally of 5,000 people fairly close to home. We still participated. We even donated $40 more to Planned Parenthood. And though we didn't feel the exhilaration we'd have felt from nine hours on our feet in DC, we were able to come home and paint the kitchen ceiling, then wake up Sunday morning and paint the rest of it.
How is it that a ceiling—already white and being painted a brighter, fresher white, needed a second coat? But it did. So Marty re-rolled it while I started on the walls.
You should hear us: he bitches; I moan; we both grunt. It was a full day of grunting. We sound like old people trying to get up from the toilet.
The paint is pretty good. I chose Behr Marquee (primer and paint in one) in Beach something or another, and it covered in a single coat. Actually, the paint is exactly the same value as the previous paint, so there were spots when I was all finished where I didn't realize I hadn't painted there yet.
Good prep made cleanup easy. But by the time I was taking the painter's tape off the floor, my fingers had stopped working. I've been up and down the ladder so much in two days (I cut, Marty rolls), that took three ibuprofen and a whole hydrocodone before bed.
I painted from 11:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m. After dinner, I scraped the windows and then pulled up all the drop cloths and the tape, washed brushes, folded drop cloths, and went up to take a shower. I don't know how I washed my hair without being able to lift my arms over my head.