The Elves are Fired!

Since the elves didn't show up -- the lazy little sods -- I had to paint the kitchen myself this weekend. I've been planning to do it since we moved in last year, and I don't even want to admit to myself how long I've had the paint stashed away. There just never seemed to be time to do it. Translation: I could always think of something better to do and I put it off.

But we have company coming next weekend, and this weekend was free, and Dave and I decided to be resolute (He'd been wanting to paint his office.). Actually, Dave was resolute; I was wavering, leaning toward absolute procrastination once again. It was going to be a pain painting around all those cupboards, and how was I going to paint behind the refrigerator? And I'd invariably step in the paint and track it all over my hardwood floors. AARGH!

But. It wasn't, I managed, and I didn't spill a drop. Surprise, surprise, it wasn't nearly as arduous as I imagined, as with most things I dread. I don't know why I forget that -- when I want to learn Italian or stand up for myself -- or like this morning, when I go back to a book I abandoned for my sewing room several months ago.

It's been a long hiatus. Will my characters remember me? Or will they turn their backs and fling their noses in the air? Is my countryside overgrown and weedy? Are all the buildings boarded up?

I'm dreading it. Here's one situation where I'm afraid my imagination will fail me, and I won't be able to think of a thing to write even if there is a person still left in my town who's still speaking to me. It's going to hard and painful and lonely.

Or. Maybe it'll be fun. Maybe I'll be welcomed back like a long-lost friend. Maybe I won't spill the paint.