Tuesday I scrubbed the east wall and the two closets, and this evening I primed the wall and the more complicated pantry, the one without removable shelves. A previous occupant nailed shelves in place, about a third of the depth of the 18-inch closet. This leaves very little space for someone to maneuver. I should have clipped my ponytail to my scalp and worn a bandana over that, but I'm almost 36 so don't mind the occasional white hair. It's really difficult to scrub primer off knuckles, especially chapped ones. So whatever, I'm leaving it.
Blake was mostly well-behaved, sad but resigned. I got home from work and the daily Home Despot run before 5 and didn't finish until 8:30--the kitchen is the only way I'll ever listen to War and Peace--and he kept me company in the kitchen in his cage, eating his dinner and preening and settling into his fugue state on one foot until nearly the end, when he yelled his boredom and frustration.
No more bored than I was. Good grief. Two-inch, four-inch, and twelve-inch (in an alcove on the left) shelves, some made of unfinished wood, all of which but the bottom with a visible underside. I kept seeing bits I had forgotten, and getting primer on me from all sides as I spiraled down the closet.
Ptooey, what a chore.