Studio Sounds
“Ya little bastard……. Get IN there!” She stops singing along with her playlist of 90s pop, rock, and show tunes to mumble curses and orders at the inanimate objects she's working with.
"STAY!" The thwack of a hammer punctuates her demand of compliance. She resumes her singalong as a rotary tool whirrs to life, shaving, carving, shaping.
A few moments go by as the music drones on without accompaniment. Drawers open, digging noises, shuffling, searching.....
She explodes from the Studio, eyes wild. Purposful stompstompstomps through the house. Rummage-mumble-rummage, she tosses things here and there. A triumphant "HA!" as she holds it up, turning it over in her hands, seeing untold possibilities in a random plastic thing discarded in the recycling bin. She retreats with her prize, even faster than before, stompstompstompstomp. The door slams in excitement.
Hours pass as she continues to hum and sing along to the playlist. A drill buzzes. A deburring tool shhhks across a surface.
"OW! FUCK! SONOFABITCH!" A paper towel tears. A length of tape skrrtchs then snaps.
She reluctantly emerges a few more times over the course of the day as life interrupts her work- let the dog out, take her own potty break, change the paint water, let the dog in.
The air compressor roars to life then exhales. The air brush whispers. A spray bottle spritzes. The heat gun groans. A paint can rattles. The exhaust fan yawns.
Eventually, she has to stop for the rest of the day to let the paint dry. The work did as much to her as she did to the work.
Hair is disheveled, full of sanding dust. Smears of paint and dust outline where safety glasses once sat on her face. Ink stains the back of her forearms and her nails. A chunk of paper towel and some floral tape binds a small cut on a finger. Her skin peeks through a fresh burn hole in her shirt. Though glitter was not used in this project, a single rogue piece will stick to a random part of her body for 9.325 days, unseen, regardless of how many scouring showers she takes.
I have no idea how my husband tolerates living with an Art Goblin.
I’m so grateful he does.
My left hand, after a full day of work.
