I got out of tonight’s demolition because I have a migraine. It’s dwindling, but I’m in no condition to swing a sledgehammer. I’m bummed. The dog and I are having a girls’ night . . . sort of. I’m burying my face in the couch and cursing the light while she repeatedly flings her rubber chicken at me. We’re bonding.
I promised myself I would write every day, even if I’ve got my eyes squinched half-shut mole-like in the laptop glow.
Yesterday when the attic ceiling insulation fell down on us, we made a fabulous discovery. Totally worth the lung itch. Above the weird, low drop ceiling – which made us feel like we had to crouch – are beautiful exposed rafters and a high ceiling. One that makes you want to breathe deeply, install a hammock, and move your library upstairs.
I have had a long standing love affair with soaring ceilings and exposed rafters; I had not dared to hope for this.
I now get to google pictures of old attics and pin wildly and ask my husband questions like “Would you rather paint or stain the rafters?”
But for now, I’ve overdone it. I think I’ll see if I can’t convince the dog to lie on my head and seal out the light.