Lessons in Frustration

I'm painting our basement again. The high-sheen, semi-gloss, latex debacle is no longer on my walls. Now it has turned into a whole new debacle. So I'm here to let all the world know that I'll never be picking up a paint brush again after I'm finished making this mess. So don't even bother asking.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't hit my head about six bazillion times on our low ceiling and the ducts that run from one end of the room to the other. Or maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to carry my 114 lb. TV from one end of the room to the other, knowing that in a few hours I'll have to reconnect the countless wires that go from one piece of equipment to another. (But hey, I have a 32" TV ... I'll count my blessings.) Or maybe it wouldn't be so bad if, when moving my book case, I didn't drop my Joe Sakic Team Canada bobblehead. Not that I'm really attached to it, but it looks kinda cool with some of my other hockey paraphanelia. Now, the springs have popped in Sakic's neck, creating some kind of slinky effect and adding a freakish bobble to an already somewhat deformed and spooky looking face. He looks like he should be carrying a surfboard not a hockey stick. Add to the frustration that I still don't like the colour that now graces my walls. Sounds like another fun-filled weekend to me.

So, here I am. Spending another Saturday watching the paint dry. I've had more fun popping zits. Good times had by all.