As posted before, I’ve been painting the kitchen. Again.
But I’m done. Done, done, DONE.
Yesterday I had a startling burst of energy and decided it was time to get the paint spatters off the floor.
I am a messy painter. I should just dip a shirt in the bucket and get it over with. I drip it all over the place like I’m being paid to make it all spotted.
I stopped at Home Depot (also known as the place which has the money that should be in my nest egg) and told the man I needed a chemical that was harsh and possibly lethal to get up the paint that did not come up with ammonia the night before.
He tried to deter me, but I would not hear it. I wanted something that would melt a toilet, and I wanted it then.
Six dollars later I was home to get up my first drop of paint and melt the linoleum. Fortunately I tried it in an inconspicuous spot, because boy howdy that was some strong stuff.
I switched to a little chisel and CLR and the floor was just covered in hot water and very small areas of suds where I had paint drops soaking.
I was wearing deck shoes with siped soles, so I really didn’t think much about the water (what with my zeal to get up the paint and all).
I was busily scraping and talking on the phone with my brother, and you know what happens when you lean down and apply pressure in a downward, forward motion: you sort of push yourself backwards, which I did, only I didn’t just slide backward. Being topheavy, I also toppled forward onto my arthritic right knee.
Good thing I didn’t put my eye out with that tiny chisel in the ensuing melee.
What he said next was, “Oh, hell. Are you in the floor?” which is more compassionate than what I did when he fell off my porch.
My pride forced me to say, “Yeah, but I’m fine,” as I slid around the kitchen trying to get a purchase on something and get up.
Once I got off the phone and got up, I realized I was actually in quite a lot of pain and got out one of my two remaining bags of zipper peas from Daddy and put them on my knee.
I have an exceptionally high tolerance for pain, but my ears were ringing and I was seeing bluebirds and hotdogs. I considered taking myself over to the St. Joe’s ER for a short visit, but decided not to since I could wiggle my toes and all. Plus I didn’t think I could hold the gas pedal down all the way over there right then.
I couldn’t get comfortable when I went to bed. By about six this morning I was practically dead from the pain and exhaustion and my foot felt like it belonged on somebody else’s leg so I had some non-helpful Aleve.
Through sheer sounding pitiful I managed to get a work-in with my knee guy, who did say, “Jesus. I’d have gone to the ER.”
He gave me a shot of cortisone to “calm the area down” and if it’s still feeling like dead man’s foot in two weeks I have to have an MRI and see what’s torn. Meanwhile I have Ultram for if it’s awful, ice, and prayer.
I feel like a complete dork, but one thing is, most of my injuries are good for a laugh.