Tomorrow the painter comes to paint our smoked damaged living and dining room that were ruined due to a chimney fire in December.
One would think I had enough time to think about paint colors.
One would think I would be organized and slowly, carefully moved everything out of the rooms.
One would think I would have thought about that.
Oh the life of a spur of the moment girl.
Above is a nineteen century feather duster:
It once danced through the perfectly put parlours in the hand of maid
wearing a white pinafore and thick black stockings.
Then there is me barefoot with jeans, sitting on the sofa in a panic. looking through paint colors, with French Husband freaking out that we need to move everything out...
Later I hear a scream when he opens the armoire,
"Corey you are never going to the brocante again."
Seven tomorrow morning the painter comes.... I might not sleep tonight.