24 December 2007
I was at my friend Merrill's house last night and he had built a dollhouse for his daughter for Christmas (okay, his wife had actually built it, but she wears the pants). It was a gift from Santa, so they could only work on it at night.
While Merrill and I were watching HOT FUZZ, his wife was painting the dollhouse, then went to bed. But she set the alarm for six am so she could get up and move the now-dry dollhouse into the garage before the kids got up and discovered it. After the movie, I felt bad that Merrill's woman would have to get up so early (I'd rather not go to bed at all than have to get up at six), so I suggested the two of us move the dollhouse to the garage that night. After all, in an hour and a half, the paint was certainly dry.
So, we lifted it, carefully moving it through the house and out into the garage. It was so heavy that, unless Merrill's wife is stronger than me (which I admit is a possibility), I don't know how they'd have lugged it around together. When we sat it down in the garage, I discovered that some of the paint had indeed not dried, and that I'd gotten paint all over my hand, sleeve, shoe, and smudged some of the edges where Mrs. Merrill had carefully detailed.
Rish "The Anti-Santa" Outfield
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