Please ignore my totally dirty, work-zone stairs.
Oh Em Gee, people. This was a wing dinger. Now that I'm not sceered of the saw (well still sceered in a healthy way, but not in a pop-a-neck-vein, squeeze-my-eyes-shut kind of way), I feel like the world is my oyster. Er something.
Um, and then I tried to cut teensy weensy trim.
The trim inside the boxes?
Um, let's just say I took them out to thee ole saw, did one cut, and sent the other (6 foot long) piece flying across the garage and into the wall.
And then, I was sceered. All I wanted was for someone to hold me, and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I begged for mercy from the hubs to do those teensy weensy pieces.
Now, lemme 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
(Helloooo! Wavin' to ya)
These boxes are not hard. I love them. These boxes up the stairs? Don't do them.
DON'T DO THEM UP THE STAIRS.
Let me point out why:
You know what? Let me put it this way. If you like unneccessary trips to the dentist or the DMV, do these boxes up the stairs. If you like occasionally digging out an in-grown toe nail, do these up the stairs. If you enjoy accidently hitting your head on the way into the car (other people do do that, right?), do these up the stairs. If you enjoy plucking your nose hairs or picking a zit that's just barely inside your nostril (my eyes are watering), do these up the stairs.
Now, my pants would totally be on fire (in a liar sort of way this time) and hanging on a telephone wire if I were to say I did this completely, 100% all on my own. I almost did. Almost. Those angles? I didn't have the foggiest how to calculate.
But I'm done. It's, like, totally my new hangout.
It's sooo comfy. And work-zone dirty.