The Devil Holds a Paintbrush

Since the demise of Drippy, God rest his feline soul, we've been meaning to spruce up the mudroom, ie, banish memories of that cat's gastrointestinal indiscretions.

It's time for a major makeover and what good news: I'm an excellent painter. (Sounds "Rainman," doesn't it? But I am an excellent painter.) Not that it's rocket science, mind you. It's just that certain others living under this roof paint wily-nily -- dripping and spattering paint everywhere before abandoning said project to watch Star Trek. I, on the other hand, am been blessed with patience to paint.

My subject awaits:

What a pigsty.

Day 1, late April: Road trip to the hardware store. Yellow's always been my go-to color, but I randomly reach for a blue chip among sea of samples. Purchase paint & brushes. $148. Ouch.

Day 2: Prep time. I pull the guts out of the mudroom and onto the deck. Orange cones, deflated football, work boot, bug spray, gloves, grilling utensils.... How did we fit so much crap into such a small space? I corral crap into an orderly pile.

A little later: Prep walls. With broom attack 8 years of dead bugs, dog/cat hair, mud, muck and dust trapped in nooks and crevices.

15 minutes later: New strategy: paint over hair, bugs and dust bunnies.

Day 3: Friday, stunning day. Radio blaring, dog dozing. Life is good. Clapboard walls soak up paint but it looks good, aside from lumps where hair/bugs are captured by paint brush and entombed permanently on the wall. Paint can becomes chunky with bugs.

3 hours later: This is torture. I'm not even once around the room...not to mention trim for 4 windows and 2 doors. Weekend project, was I crazy?

Day 4: Saturday night. Normal people are dining and partying. I'm dripping sweat, tottering on a ladder, slathering paint on wall. Didn't think about a drop cloth so floor is starting to look Dalmation-like.
Martin observes snail-pace progress "Is that flat paint?" I stare dumbly in response. "You should use glossy, it looks better and is easier to clean." I consider bludgeoning Martin with paintbrush, then concede he's right.

Midnight: it's pouring rain. On all the crap I left on the deck.

A Monday, 2 weeks later: Recovering from painting burn-out with new outlook: I imagine I'm in prison and have no choice but to paint or face beating by warden and assault by other inmates. Somehow this is comforting.

Wednesday: Walls complete. Time to start ceiling says warden in my head. Dog mocks me by sunbathing while I toil away.

Thursday: Ceiling paint goes on like glue and tires out my right arm. Attempt to use left hand but it behaves spasmotically; uncontrollably paints electrical outlet and window.

Goodbye dingy yellow...

Week 4: Radio is making me lose will to live with continuous loop of repetitive ads. Mervis ships its diamonds from factory to finger and passes the savings along to YOU!... Are you looking to improve your computer skills?... Want to own your own house for $20k? There's deals in foreclosure homes! ... Have you ever wanted to be bigger? To last longer?...

Week 5: Walls and ceiling done. On to trim. Hmm, can see why previous owners painted everything the same color. Consider the Mr. Bean style of painting:



Week 6: Aside from prison scenario, pass time thinking up jobs worse than painting. Let see... Toll booth operator in the truck lane. Quality control tester for laxative products. Elmo character in costume at DisneyWorld during summer. Tour manager for Barry Manilow. No -- scratch that -- tour manager for Air Supply.

Memorial Day: Deadline for project completion has come and gone for umpteenth time. Did I ever think this would be fun?

June 1rst: I'm in the final stretch -- just bench tops. Planned to use accent color but didn't account for my lack of taste. Strike one, clash city:

Strike 2, just hideous:

June 3rd: Phew! Finally a color I can work with!

I am officially done with my 3-day-turned-6-week project. Behold:


I've thrown off my painting shackles -- Free at last, free at last!!

Actually, I'm a little sad to pack up the ladder and brushes. Looking back on it, that project wasn't so bad...

Farewell, old friend. You served me well...

Last week's recap

The big news of the week: Drippy is no longer with us. He was put to sleep Thursday after I hemmed and hawed for days. I'll spare you the gross details but it was time. He was a mess and showed no signs of improving.

He lived a good life -- 20 years! -- but it's weird not having him around. Sure, he was a self-centered grouch, he mauled other animals, he dripped and drooled on anyone in reach. But he's been on the farm as long as we have. Longer, actually.

I remember when we closed on the farm 9 yrs ago, and in that "oh my god, what have we just done?" mentality, we drove out that night to gaze at our new purchase. We left our former farmhouse, mired among 60's suburban split-levels, just a block from the Metro and a Chinese restaurant plagued by health code violations. Several exits up the highway and among dwindling traffic, we veered onto a twisting, hilly two-laner past sleepy houses and fields of horses and dairy cows.

Martin: "Wow, it's so....dark out here. Is it always this dark?"
Me: "Yea, it's the country. There's not a 7-11 around the corner."
Martin: "There's not even a corner around the corner."

We didn't go in the house. We just stood in the moonlight, with the barn looming over us (blissfully unaware of the looming repairs....holes in the barn roof from people shooting pigeons, the rotting fence line we'd replace, the run-in shed that would collapse in a snow storm....).

As we stood there, the gray shadow of Drippy bumped up against me. At that time, I knew him only as "barn cat 1" on the list of conveyances with the property, in addition to "barn cat 2" and "utility cart" tipped up against the silo.

That night, if Drippy could have spoken, this is what he would have said: "Look you two, I don't give a fig what you think you just signed, I'm the law of this land. Don't think for a second that you own this place."

Drippy ruled with an iron claw. Scratch first, ask questions later. Though he could be civil when he wanted food or attention and certainly softened in his waning years.

Somewhere in our photo archives -- in the days before digital -- is a picture of Martin, reclining in a chair on our deck, the sun's setting, and he's clutching a cocktail (a screwdriver, I recall, in a pint glass filled to the brim). Martin should have been happy but the look on his face is utter disdain. Because Drippy is camped on his stomach like hen sitting on an egg. He's disinterested and oblivious to the long string of saliva stretching from his fang and pooling on Martin's shirt.

That was part of the problem. Drippy was not an absentee dictator. When were out and about, he was there. Amidst the zillions of photos we've taken of the kids, he's ever present. And usually not in a 'Where's Waldo' kind of way. He marches right into the frame.



So it's odd, no longer greeted by his yowl in the mudroom or hearing his pleas to come in. No longer tripping over him in the barn. He was a lousy, drooling, good for nothing, freeloading cat. Who will be missed.

Spook status report

Almost a month to the day when I first mentioned my efforts to woo Spook, the feral cat living in our barn, I nabbed the little guy! Well, actually, I caught him, lost him, then caught him again.

In the past month since the Spook post (see: http://furnaceford.blogspot.com/2009/02/wooing-of-spook.html), I've spent a little timeeach day edging closer to him, standing nearby while he ate and eventually graduating to resting my hand next to him. Finally, one night the temptation of canned cat food was too much. With his face buried in the dish next to Drippy, he let me pet him.

That's about as far as I got. Sometimes I could sit on the hayloft stairs and he'd inch down a step or two to meet me. But Frog would inevitably chase him away.

Today, Spook ventured down for a drink of water and Frog chased him into the tack room. I quickly shut him in and planned to box him up when I was done riding. But when I returned, Spook had vanished... he shoved the door open and squeezed out.

By now, I was hyped to catch him. My friend Liz, who has worked in vet clinics, had given me a crash course on cat wrangling 101: grab the scruff of the neck and if you can, his hind legs so he doesn't scratch you; put him in the cat box hind-end first.

I lured him from the loft with food, pet him for 10 minutes and before he knew what had happened, I had grabbed him and plopped him in the box.



He was one ticked off kitty, and quickly shoved his little paw through the grates to take a swipe at me. (I dropped the box and cat twice, thanks to that move). But 10 minutes later he was at the vet, where he will be tested for feline HIV, get vaccinated and lose his manhood.

No doubt, the month of winning his trust just evaporated, but if all goes well, he'll be a happy, healthy, ball-less barn cat.

Recovering from summer

Just six days after a blanket of snow, Maryland basked in 72-degree temperatures. Everyone in the area crawled out from under their rocks, hurled off their ski jackets and ran around madly screaming "summa-time! summa-time!"

I know it's only March, but it was a two-day taste of seasons to come.

I borrowed a friend's seasoned hunt horse, and went fox hunting for a few hours on Saturday... and now have the sore muscles and aching joints to prove it. It was a great time, but man, I feel like I'm a 100 yrs old. And have been run over by a truck. Dragging myself out of bed this morning, I groaned as I leaned into my jeans. And abandoned all hope of wearing socks. Those toes are just too far away to reach.

So with my (normally) immature brain and my elderly body, I cannot put a cohesive thought to blog. Instead, I offer a few farm photos from Sunday when we began spring cleaning and unleashed the kids on the world after months of indoor dwelling. Back to normal blogging tomorrow. Promise.

On Sunday, first order of business: mow through the Huck's goldy locks. Huck grows a winter coat like a woolly mammoth, which is a grooming nightmare and a sweaty mess when it's warmer outside. So instead of letting him shed out naturally, I decided a buzz cut was in order.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to mind being poked, prodded and nicked. In fact, he enjoys the attention.

An hour and 50 minutes later, I had sheared off enough hair to fill a garbage bag. Secretly I hoped to find a svelte draft horse beneath all that hair.

No dice. He's still a fat guinea pig. Though I must say, this is not a flattering camera angle. Come-on Martin, go easy on the butt shots.

While Huck was at the beauty shop, the kids were plotting an attempt to hijack Chitty.

Next up, the dog, who also wore a winter's worth of mud, muck, and canine grunge, peppered with a few irresistible rolls in deer carcasses along the way. Last year, Martin built an outdoor shower on the side of our house. Initially, he planned to install just the plumbing... and shower under the magnolia tree. Yes, we live in a rural community, but we do share a driveway for Pete's sake. You can't shower naked in a tree. So we added this shower stall, much to Maisie's dismay.

Maisie was stoic, all the while thinking happy thoughts about well-heeled sheep....

About this time, Hadley the Barbarian thought that it would be wise to bathe the cat as well. As much as I would love to de-stenchify that cat, I nixed the idea. Drippy, you can thank me later by not defiling our mudroom.

By end of day, most farm beasts had been ridden, run or otherwise exercised, and scrubbed clean. Hope they enjoyed it. Winter returns next weekend.

'Name That Bug!' contest is over before it began

Some houses are infested by ladybugs or crickets. Or potato bugs or silverfish. We get stinkbugs.





When these prehistoric-looking creatures with angular armored shells appeared in our bathroom, I didn't know what the hell they were. And I thought I'd offer a gift certificate to the wannabe insectologist reading this blog who could ID this little beauty.

But leave it to The Google to come through. A few clicks and I ran across a blog with a photo similar to mine of the "brown marmorated stinkbug."

Apparently their stink is no match for Maisie's breath or Drippy's butt, the latter of which has apparently scorched our olfactory senses for life. I swear, I'll be standing out in the neighboring hay field and think that I smell Drippy. (see previous posts on Drippy as needed)

Back to our lil' stinkbugs. These guys have been keeping us company during the long winter months, creeping cautiously along the soap dish, resting passively on the dresser by my comb and brush. They never do anything alarming, like fly up in your face (though they can fly) or skitter away. And when they've had enough, you find them up-ended on their armor-plated backs on the floor. And you just scoop them up.

Otherwise the kid eats them.

I found a blogger in Md. who discusses brown marmorated stinkbugs, and confirms that they are harmless and their odor is not especially offensive. But he also goes on to say, "There is something oddly satisfying about having live bugs in the house during the winter. It’s akin to the satisfaction I get from pets and house plants."

Whoa buddy, rein it in a bit. I'm not ready to slap a collar and leash around my stinkbug and take it for a stroll.

But I will agree, they're the least offensive indoor-dwelling bug that I've had the pleasure to know. I can remember living in South Carolina, the land of the palmetto bug, which is a really nice way of saying: gigantic, mutant cockroach that couldn't be louder walking on your walls if it was wearing tap shoes. These things dwelled indoors and out, and were terrifying, and surprisingly resistant to attacks on their life. They weren't in the dying business and they were so big, you'd be scared to squash them in your house.

And while you'd been standing there, shoe in one hand, magazine in the other thinking, "if I squish one more of these on the wall, this room is going to look like a crime scene..."

...just as you had mustered the guts to strike, convincing yourself that you'd kill this one with just one blow, that palmetto bug would attack you. Because palmetto bugs, unlike run-of-the-mill roaches, have wings and they're attracted to light, such as white tee-shirts. And in my personal experience, hair. Ug, it gives me the creeps thinking thinking about it.

So given the choice, I welcome the stinkbugs as our new little residents.

Though Cayden isn't as appreciative. He's the closest one to a pacifist in this family, but the other day, he had the urge to crush one in the hallway with a satisfying: "Hi-Ya! I kilt him!"

Well thanks kid, you just crushed one of my new little friends. Fortunately, we've got spares in the bedroom, bathroom, closet....

Utterly vile

Most parents fret that their toddlers will choke on something like a grape or a chunk of hotdog. Or they'll swallow something inedible like a penny or a magnet or the top to a magic marker. Something normal.

My kid, on the other hand, went fishing tonight in the litter box and found something that caught her eye. While no one was looking, she taste-tested cat pee generously breaded in litter. I'm still revolved by the incident. But what can you do? Swab her mouth out with a paper towel and move on.

But give me a break already. Can't I have a normal kid who eats dog food or lint balls?

Damn you Drippy, and your semi-used litter box! Your timing is impeccable.

Shortly after the incident, Hadley chases down her cat snack with Doritos. Bon appetit!

Other kid (the normal one), consuming food typically eaten by humans living in the US

"yea, this burger's not bad...but i know what would make it taste better...."

And now that everyone's thoroughly grossed-out, here's a bonus photo. Think of it as a palate cleanser.

It was a tough night and the high chair was a mess. But with a little quick thinking, problem solved.

Execution day commeth

Alright you little F-ers. How do I say this delicately? Pack your sh*t and go because we're exterminating your asses. And when I say "we" I'm talking about a hired gun, the queen bee of rodent control -- these guys have like a 90% approval rating in the Washington checkbook. They are NOT to be trifled with. They are killing machines and they will be here tomorrow afternoon. So, final warning: get out!

I've had it about up to here (hand above head) -- Drippy has defiled our mudroom and the stink is seeping into the kitchen. (I hope it doesn't scare away pest control), the kids are running amok in the house, then at night when it's finally quiet, all I hear is skittering and chewing in the walls.

At this moment, I don't have a solution for the first two problems but you guys, eradication city.

Now, if you were cute like Remy, and you could whip up an omelet, maybe we could have worked something out.

You can run but you can't hide

I can see where Stephen King came up with his freaky ideas about killer pets.

I'm holed up in the cellar -- as removed as possible from life on the farm. Just me, my laptop....and a chilling, guttural yowl. I'm being stalked. By Drippy.


Drippy, now 20 yrs old, was originally christened "Smokey" by his former owner, a vet, who allegedly acquired the kitten in exchange for veterinary services. Smokey went on to father a litter and quickly realized that parenthood wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He bolted...next door. "Barn cat #2," as he was called by the farm's former owners, conveyed with the farm.

We immediately named him Drippy for the long strings of saliva that seeped from his jaw when he purred...and for no apparent medical reason (Trust me, I took him to the vet clinic; $125 later he was was vaccinated and declared a happy, healthy cat who "drools profusely when excited.")

Since then he's been a royal pain the neck. He's an utterly useless mouser. He is quick to claw friend or foe and is constantly looking for a way inside. Leave the door cracked for a moment while unloading groceries and he's in. Good luck dragging him out again. When he's out, he's lobbying to be let in, meowing at window or door.

Most recently, he endeared himself by pooping in our mudroom b/c he's decided that it's too cold and icy to leave the mudroom. My husband said that's it, time's up on that cat. I wavered and we've compromised with a litter box in the mudroom. I'll just put it this way... sometimes he nails the target.

His one saving grace? The one thing that keeps us from digging a hole in the orchard? He loves the kids. And unfortunately, the feeling is mutual....