As I am wont to do, I saw the rules more as guidelines, really. And while I finally did vacuum my floor–thanks to the generosity of a friend who lent me her Dyson–I’ve had a long
day week and I just put clean pajamas on and my carpet is desperate for a deep, truck mounted cleaning and my kitchen floor is even worse because life sort of happened this while and in face I have a very good idea of what’s on my ceiling even from my favorite chair, which is on the floor, and gives me a perfectly decent view of my ceiling.
This is a handprint. I don’t recall which child of mine left a black greasy handprint on my ceiling, but I’m not in any hurry to clean it off because it reminds me of the story my Uncle Dean tells of the frustration of being a much younger and therefore primarily only child of a lovely woman I’m quite sure had OCD and who we used to joke would wash your glass almost before you were done drinking the water out of it. Dean was rather tall and athletic and I’m not entirely sure how he arrived at it–maybe he did the high jump–but somehow he managed to do some sort of high kick to the ceiling and leave his footprint right in the middle of my grandmother’s pristine ceiling.
I’m also fairly certain that footprint remained there for quite some time.
In any case, one of the nice things about my ceiling–cobwebs don’t bother me, particularly, is that with the exception of the ceiling in my bedroom, it is the only flat surface in my house on which the paint is not peeling.
So there’s that.
Perhaps if someday I were ever to write a song, it might be about peeling paint (which I initially wrote as “peeling pain.”
In any case, the flat white pain over the texturing my husband did is not peeling.
[Day 190 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]