Oh My Head

First of all, sorry. All this time I’ve been saying “spin-sander” when I should have been saying “orbital.” (I’m sure some of you knew that when you saw the picture. Thanks for not being all know-it-all about it and pointing out my linguistical faux pas.) There is a spin-sander down there. It’s a big, scary, industrial-type thing that looks like it wants to take your face off. I ain’t touchin’ it.

Second, in Johnny’s defense, it turns out those shelves are for George’s tools. Our friend George, who is a mechanic and fixes Chuck (TFT) when he breaks down (which is always). George lives in an apartment and so doesn’t have a basement; he’s been storing his tools in ours for donkey’s years. So long that I forgot. And apparently I’m the one who put our spin— sorry, orbital sander on George’s shelf (which is probably even true, since I’m the last one who used it, and lord knows Himself never just spontaneously puts something away). Johnny didn’t look on George’s shelf, because it’s not where our stuff belongs.

Whatever.

But the worst of it is third.

I have to sand again. And not just cuz Johnny said so. I knew it as soon as I looked at the thing this morning. It’s the shellac. It’s not like paint or poly. You can’t just buff it with an emery board and expect the paint to stick. And that’s what 150-grade sandpaper is, essentially. A big old girly nail file.

I asked Johnny’s opinion, because I hoped there was a chance he’d say it was okay, but he didn’t. I have to go to Blowe’s and get new pads for the or-bi-tal-san-der. And more by-hand stuff too.

“Blowe’s” is right.

This does.