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paint fumes
Friday, April 21 2000
[REDACTED]
In the evening after work, I rendezvoused with Kim at our new townhouse in West LA. Despite my initial objections, she'd hired a team of Mexicans (led by a golden Christ-medallion-wearing gentleman named Felipe) to paint the place and freshen it up. This meant more delays before we could move in, which left me feeling cranky and ungrounded. I've been without a home for entirely too long. But at least the Mexicans were making rapid progress; they'd begun early this morning and were nearly done already.
Kim and I did dinner at the Bicycle Shop restaurant up on Wilshire, sitting at a window table beneath a ponderous bicycle built entirely out of wood. My calamari pasta dish was excellent.
As Felipe and his crew packed up their gear at the end of their day, Kim and I went inside to examine their achievements. The scuffed, cold bluish white paint that had covered the walls yesterday had vanished, replaced by a fresher, warmer shade of white. It smelled like oil-based paint, nearly to the point of inducing headache. But it was our place, and it looked so good, we couldn't help ourselves. We stood around and looked at it in wonder, like it was our first-born child.
Then we spent our last night at Evan and Corynna's place.
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