Outdoor Stuff

festivities, AH and I set to some back-breaking manual labour in the form of a complete front door makeover. Since moving into our home five years ago, we’ve despised our front door. A builder-selected forest green, a shade not resembling anything that has been in style since the early 90′s, and only then in folk art and floral upholstery. It was ugly, is what I’m saying. Between the green paint, the sad, boring windows, the chipping brass handles, the thick crust of dust from living in a construction site for five years, and the peeling paint from around the frame, the doors were practically begging for a makeover. IN ENGLISH.

This is the only photo I could find at the last minute. Unfortunately it’s in black and white, so you won’t be able to fully appreciate the green. But you can see the grit and grim, the flaky paint, and the windows, which look like sad, weeping eyes.

No Guarantees

An old friend of mine from high school days lost her daughter yesterday morning. She was only a few months younger than Eirinn. I never met the little girl and, truth be told, it has been probably 10 years at least since the last I spoke to my friend in person. These are the days of Facebook, and so I’ve followed her daughter’s struggle from a distance. I’m not good in these situations. I never know what the right thing is to say or how to behave or even what to do with my arms.

I didn’t even have the courage to ask her what exactly her daughter was fighting against. All I knew was that her beautiful, truly gorgeous, little girl, with a mop of curly hair and a smile that stretched all across her doll face, was pictured with wires and tubes, and then with a bald head. She was only a few months younger than Eirinn, clearly struggling with all her might against something very serious, and yet I never once saw a picture of her without that smile.