My new new town workspace is sooooo close to being finished! It's all so excitng to me that I want to faint. The (amazing bargain) sink is hooked up, most of the lighting is in (enough for me to work with anyway) and now I am thinking about getting a real plate cutter (instead of doing it with a carpet knife like I have been doing all along), a real drying rack (in stepford my bedroom was so big and empty I used to lay prints out on the wall to wall carpet- no longer an option now that I am working in the basement), some kind of work table just for inking, and another clean table for paper tearing, and ofcourse I'll have to gather up some of my favorite prints to hang on the two walls that I highlighted with track lighting and put funky metal picture rails to hang stuff from. Be still my heart.
I was so delighted in my stepford house just to be able to print, and I had to use a hallway closet for the light unit, my clothing closet for cutting plates, my bathtub for washing plates and soaking paper, my vanity for drying the plates, my studio to print the initial transparencies and also run the prints off, and then my bedroom floor for drying. Now I'll be able to complete the process without running laps. Cooool. Way coool!
I was talking with the electrician about what happened with the husband's burnt toast feet and the tile warmers. The electrician happens to be qualified to install this particular brand of tile warmers and he was telling me how many different ways the tile warmers could be broke and also several scenarios in which the husband could have been more hurt than second degree soles of his feet burns, including electrocution. Talk about fainting. I almost had a break down today. I worry enough as it is already, so when someone descibes something like that to me I almost live it in my head. I'm pretty sure I had a mild heart attack today. I feel kind of bad becuase I am pretty sure every single person who had the misfortune of calling me for a light and entertaining chat hung up wondering if today was indeed the day they should be phoning the funny farm for my own way ticket. The husband is trying to take the whole burned feet ordeal in stride, but I on the other hand am going in the oppsite direction. I'm a wreck. The worst part is that while I really dig the husband's new foot doctor, he is extremely serious about the husband's condition. The stepford foot doc was willing to play the "You'll be fine!" game, but the new new town guy keeps telling us that the husband is still critical, not out of the woods, and that his feet will never be more than 75% again. Seriously? I interpret that to mean UNENDING problems. I'm going to publish now so I can have another heart attack.
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