…or how my thumb got skinned in the process. Yesterday, we worked on cleaning up all the gunk that was under the laminate floors when we pulled them in the kitchen. Needless to say, the things found under floors can be rather…gross. We knew when we pulled the island, there would be some need to patch or do something with the floor underneath so we could install the vinyl plank we are going to run through the whole house. With three dogs, four humans, and various other animals who like to visit the house, we need flooring which can handle the elements and the chaos better than the poorly installed laminate which was left to us by the previous owners.
Under the laminate were peel and stick linoleum tiles. So my job today, was to patch the space under the island with new peel and stick tiles purchased for just that purpose. I did a fairly good job of patch working the floor while keeping the far too curious puppy’s nose away from the utility knife. Somehow, though, I managed to slice a chunk off my thumb just above the knuckle. I did not notice this sliceage until I glanced down and noticed that a drop of blood had fallen to the floor. After I ascertained that the blood was not coming from the puppy’s nose, I did a quick assessment of my own appendages.
It is interesting how, until I spotted the source of the blood on my thumb, my thumb did not hurt. As soon as I found the source, my thumb started that sort of pokie sort of feeling a new ouch gets when the top few layers of skin go missing. My left hand has many scars from wood carving and sculpting and such, but this ouch is actually on my right hand, which makes me wonder even more how it got there.
My wounded thumb aside, the patch working went fairly well. The absent tiles have been replaced with the cheapest peel and stick I could find which seemed to be the same thickness. Tomorrow we need to pull the stove and the dishwasher and clean the creepy things lurking under them as well. I am fairly sure the spouse thinks that the pulling and cleaning is his job…I am not about to try to convince him otherwise. Aside from the patchwork making in the kitchen, I am grateful that today the skies only rained in the morning and now again as I type this. If there is too much rain the chickens pout. I do admit that pouting chickens are highly entertaining, but the baby peepers are still seen as invaders in the main coop, so they might not have a good spot to get out of the rain.
I wanted to type about the visiting cat, the donkeys and the mud, and Rose, the horse, who has to eat alfalfa mash, but if I am going to tackle my tasks for tomorrow I had better get to sleep. I would say good night, but if you are reading this it is probably morning. So, good morning!
I’m just someone trying to figure out how to juggle ten acres, work, a mama with stage four cancer, and a whole lot of grumpy. This blog started out as “Grumpy Gal’s Guide to Gratitude,” but since all I really keep typing about is the garden, I figured I might as well own it! So, thanks for joining me as I try and figure out how the heck to kick myself in the booty and get on with life.