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Spicy Mustard

August 4, 2010

This will be the picture that sums up J.D.’s summer. He has been spending an average of twelve to fourteen hours a day either at the house or schmoozing with the guys down at Home Hardware.

Meanwhile, I sit here tending the first child and gestating the second, while paint chips dance around and mock my fear of commitment. The torment of selecting the exact perfect paint colors also coincides with the torment of choosing the exact perfect name for this here baby. Sometimes the two overlap and I find a color like Jamestown blue and another color incorporating one of the name candidates for the second kid and the two shades sort of go together but not really and then I think its a sign: a murky uninterpretable sign and therefore it is safer to just scrap all original name and color choices.

Maybe we should just choose the colors and assign the baby name accordingly. In the end it would probably cost the kid less to legally change his/her name to what he/she really wants than it would for us to repaint. Chestertown Buff? That’s pretty unisex and also hip. A hyphen in there would make it ultra modern. How about Kennebunkport? Spicy-Mustard?

Today J.D. was vacuuming out a vent (which is only accessible by tediously unscrewing the vent cover) and he sucked up (about twelve different types of dead bodies went through my head as he got to this point in the story) an unopened pack of cigarettes. This discovery nicely matches the punch holes on two of the bedroom doors, as well as the credit card resistant lock on the master bedroom door. An unassuming mother and her well-adjusted teenage daughter were the previous residents.

He might have been tempted to sit on the stoop and smoke one, except that last night he primed one of the bedrooms without a ventilating mask and came home with bulgy eyes and paint thinner breath. That’s enough poison death experiences for this particular twenty-four hours.

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