#wood stain & oil

[bitchfitch]

I am a jack of all trades and that's something I've put a lot of time into over the years because I find the processes behind various crafts to be absolutely fascinating and learning the craft is the joy. not doing it. which is why I burn through so many hobbies constantly. Once I know the process once Ive pushed myself to achieve relative competence at it, I get bored. There's always more to learn and new things to try within a craft, but it's a rapidly diminishing return the further I get into something mostly because like. there's way more overlap between crafts than people tend to think so once you have a grasp of x you apply it to y to achieve z. making z boring because x and y were already known.

it's too the point that I'm running out of hobbies. The lands left to conquer require heavy machinery or animals and I'm Bored. I need a new craft again but I can't Find one

[jokeanddaggerdept]

[caterjunes]

grayson & i swept and mopped upstairs. got that good good murphy's oil shine out of the scuffed-up boards

[amritokumarbd]

Paintlab.ie

Address: Unit D1, Ballymount Dr, Ballymount Industrial Estate, Dublin, D12 CY99, Ireland Phone: +353 1 573 3222 Businesses Eamil: info@paintlab.ie Website: https://www.paintlab.ie/ Product: woodcare & treatments, exterior wood care, interior wood care, wood stain & oil, varnish & lacquer, garden furniture stain & oil, decking stain & oil, cleaning solution, wood filler, paint brushes, paint roller frames, paint roller sleeves, paint buckets & trays, rolling poles

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[floorsandinguklondon]

Floor Sanding Company

Trustworthy Floor Sanding Company With Top Quality Results.

Website: https://floorsanding.co.uk

Address: 32 St Peter’s Grove, London W6 9AZ

Phone Number: 0800 335 7565

Business Contact Email ID: office@floorsanding.co.uk

Business Hours: Mon-Fri:09:00 AM – 06:00 PM Sat:10:00 AM – 03:00PM Sun: Closed

[evilgwrl]

ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (One)

Note: I'm having the WORST writer's block now so pls excuse my lack of proper writing... I'm currently sitting in front of a beach writing in hopes that ill gain inspo

CW: Angst, mentions of sex, jealous/possessive Simon, PLS DONT LEAVE YOUR KIDS IN THE CAR !!! Or break into someone’s house

Inspired by: Ex!Husband Simon

PART TWO

Simon stared at you. The shades of his eyes simmering into endless voids of obsidian, blonde lashes moulded against his greased lids, the residue of the perpetual torture his body had succumbed to during deployment.

“You want a divorce?” He spoke, voice deep as he flickered between your shaking heads, sweat soiling into the papers gripped firmly and your swollen face, cheeks feverish with a red hue, eyes even more so.

You held back a rough sob, throat stripped of all moisture evident in your hoarse voice as you spoke, “Yes, Simon. I think it would be best for our family… for us.”

He scoffed. “You think the best thing for our family is to separate?”

“We already pretty much are. You’re away for days, weeks, months at a time. We’re hardly a family and it’s difficult to explain to the children why I’m crying.”

“Ok then.”

That was it. You would admit, it stung. His lacklustre tone felt like a stab in the gut, the blade drenched with anthrax as it reared blistering sores internally, the effects having shown through your putrid complexion. Your skin was dull, practically lifeless, the only living form of you grew day by day through the darkening of eyebags that almost made you look apocalyptic.

It had been 12 months of separation, officially 8 being legally divorced. You kept his last name, the permanent burn of hearing Mrs Riley still searing through you with every syllable, yet you feel it would only hurt you more if they said Ms.

Simon was often away now, and the minimal family time he used to get felt pointless as the shabby apartment he moved into after the sudden interference of your mind-boggling news barely fit the two kids you shared. His body felt more relentless on him, the taunting of his mind fulgurated the inoperative reality that he would come home to you, to his family.

His voice, almost like it dropped an octave had grown richer in aggression, tormenting those he deemed suitable, both with his tongue and with his bruised knuckles, an oil painting of blue and purple hues radiating across the pale flesh as he shrugged it off to his team as “pushing himself and others to do better”.

Couldn’t you realise your mistake? Wouldn’t you prefer crying in his arms about his absence than never having it fulfilled again?

As he looked around the bleak environment, tan stained walls revolting the creaking mattress he had brought someone home to, someone who wasn’t you. It made him feel sick like a viral infection had slunk its way into his bloodstream as he laid next to a woman that failed to make his cock throb, endless images of you sprawled out under him flickering. No wonder he called out your name instead.

You felt the familiar shake of your hands every time your phone dinged; Simon’s dreary tone was evident through his dry “On the way” text. You ushered a day of your children’s life into their cartoon-themed backpacks, innocent smiles adorning their skin, doe-like eyes of brown, far too familiar to Simon’s staring up at you.

The sound of his car scraping into your paved driveway almost made you feel like throwing up, the nerves of seeing him combined with the already present pit of anxiety due to your date later turning you into one big shaky mess as you brushed it off as “too much caffeine”.

The echo of his car door slamming shut rung through your ears, staining you with the reiteration that your ex-husband was now at your door, heavy fists knocking upon the wood. The image you saw of him in your mind morphed back to reality as you stared at him, a blank expression on your face.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, Simon.”

Your frown was clear, the pet name you were so used to becoming a distant memory in the past few months. It was a hole you were attempting to fill, to clear yourself away from his teasing tongue and faux impression of a healthy relationship. You were divorced for a reason, you knew that, but as you gazed upon the lack of life in his skin, it was almost like he was holding a mirror up to you.

“Daddy!” You watched as your 5-year-old, Ella, practically leapt into his hefty frame, his hands coiling around her like second nature. You could feel his warmth, the heat that would build in your stomach when you felt those same digits touch you.

“Hi sweetheart,” his voice gruff, yet tone lighter as he placed a delicate kiss on the skin of her forehead, “You miss me?”

She nodded, her face buried in the hem of his neck as your other child cooed from the bouncy chair, tubby legs attempting to wheel himself to the door.

“There’s my boy,” Simon practically cooed as he placed Ella down, bounding inside as he lifted the toddler out, grabby arms reaching out to pull at Simon’s locks, gentle tugs causing you to laugh.

Your voice cut through the scene like glass. Why would you want to destroy such a happy moment? Weren’t you supposed to be reuniting? Just say it, tell Simon you want him to come home, that you need him.

“This is Ella’s bag,” you speak, holding up the pink Minnie Mouse bag, “And this is Toby’s.” Your son giggled as he muffled out the words, “Transformers”.

Simon nodded, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Ella practically screeched, “Mummy’s going on a date!” The thrill of her laughter that followed only seemed to make the situation more awkward.

“A date?” Simon’s voice was deadly, the hair raising on your arms as you shook your head, a tight smile on your suddenly dry lips.

“No, no, nothing like that. Just catching up with an old colleague of mine.”

“But he’s a boy, Mummy,” Ella giggled. Who was raising your daughter to be such a big mouth? Your face formed an annoyed look, eyebrows raising as a line of wrinkles crinkled against your forehead, your pointer fingers massaging your temples.

“An old colleague?” Simon practically gasped. Had he met him at your old work Xmas parties?

“Let’s get you guys in the car.” You fumbled with Toby’s car seat as you strapped him in, your nimble fingers shaking with anxiety before you shut the door, pressing a kiss against the window before wiping away the minimal residue of dirt. Gross.

“Who is he?” His tone was acerbic like he was looking for an argument. How dare you try and replace him? He was your husband, the father of your two kids? Have you seen this random man before? Had he fucked you?

“God, Simon-“

“Who is he?” Simon was relentless, bullying his way into getting the answers as his arms folded across his chest, tattoos practically screaming at you too.

“His name’s Andrew. I ran into him at a coffee shop a few weeks back and he just wanted to catch up. That’s it.”

A loud scoff sounded in the air. “You mean that geezer from that corporate job you hated? The one who didn’t know it was weird to blatantly stare down your dress when you were standing next to your fucking husband?”

“He didn’t stare down my dress! You’re not my husband anymore, Simon. I can see who I want.”

“I don’t want our children to grow up thinking they have multiple dads.”

You’ll admit, that stung.

“Multiple dads? You’re out of your mind. The only reason they would ever believe they have multiple dads is if their real one stopped showing up. And where have you been, Simon? When have you shown up?”

Simon held his tongue, the warmth of the metallic taste gashing through his teeth as he practically snarled past you. “I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

The dress you wore was practically suffocating you as you tucked your stomach in. Simon never minded the change in your figure after motherhood, he found himself liking it even more. He loved knowing that his seed put you through that, that he made you swell with his children, and he brought out the glow in your cheeks and the delicate stretch marks that laced your hips.

Andrew was nice. His tone was comforting as he walked to your door, ushering you to his car as he insisted you could order whatever you wanted. He was handsome, the salt and pepper hues of his hair settling your insecurity.

“We’ll take the Pinot Noir,” he spoke, looking at you with an almost arrogant sheer in his blue eyes. You only liked white. Simon knew that just like he knew everything about y-

You’re not with Simon anymore. You had to realise that. Maybe that’s why you brought Andrew home, let him shove his cock (that was a lot smaller than what you were used to) inside your heat, as you let out moans you had mimicked from the porn you watched with the actor that resembled far too much of your ex-husband.

Simon's fingers gripped the steering wheel early the next morning, your two children snuggled up in the backseat as he drove back to his old house, your old home. He wasn’t a man who gave up easy, he would show you, prove to you that you made a mistake. You needed each other.

Hold on. You don’t drive a red car?

His car lurched into the entrance of your home, nearly ramming into the garage as he shoved it in park, rolling down the two back windows slightly for air as he dug around in the small side compartment of his car.

The familiar gold key he had stolen from you the night he packed up all his stuff stared back at him, practically egging him on. Go on Simon, march in there. So he did. His hand rattled against the door knob, glancing back to peak into the car for a second before he slammed the door shut.

Your body froze. Were you being robbed? No. It was only Simon. A very angry-looking Simon. You stood, the white sheet barely shielding your naked body as he took in the sight of the man next to you, his hands wrapping around his shoulders as he practically ripped him out of bed, flinging him onto the floor as he grunted, eyes reared with hatred.

“Simon, what the fuck are you doing? WHERE ARE THE KIDS?”

Andrew groaned, on the floor, covering his groin as Simon chucked the masculine clothes at his head, the thin boxers soiled across the man’s scalp as he trembled.

“Our kids are asleep in the car, waiting for their Mummy to come to the zoo with them.” Simon’s words were despicable, laced with an acrimonious tone, small particles of spit seething through his lips as stared at you.

He turned to the man, a giant frame staggering over the top of him. “Get the fuck out, and if you wake up our kids when you go past, I will personally put a bullet straight in the middle of your skull,” he said, pushing a thick digit against his forehead as Andrew rushed out, clothes barely on before you felt the front door shut, a cry of apologises leaving your lips as you tried to assist him but Simon only held you back, a tight grip coiling around your arm.

“What the fuck was that? How’d you get in?” You couldn’t even place the words to say, humiliation roaring through you as you snuggled the sheet closer to you, away from his peering eyes.

“It’s time to be a family again, don’t you think love?”

[groysinjapan]

Powder Room in Omaha

Powder room - mid-sized craftsman medium tone wood floor powder room idea with a drop-in sink, raised-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, granite countertops, a two-piece toilet and beige walls

[arnoldfinnegan]

Wood in Atlanta Inspiration for a medium-sized craftsman master bedroom remodel with gray walls and a medium-tone wood floor.

[decksealnorthernrivers]

Deck restoration and preservation specialist - servicing Tweed Shire, Byron Shire, Ballina Shire, Lismore Shire and Byron Shire

[readrtheme]

Enclosed Family Room Boston Inspiration for a large, enclosed family room remodel with a dark wood floor and a gray floor.

[rinaedin]

Dining Room Great Room Denver An illustration of a sizable transitional great room with light wood floors and gray walls.

[vegetarianburrito]

Craftsman Bedroom (Atlanta)

[pjackk]

Yep another miesrable "F my life" moment just hapened to me i basicaly walked 10 miles up the mountain to get to behind to the gas station to see my plug to buy me my with my favorite delta 8 pipe rocks and grab another 6er of tall boy steelies and i forgot i had my lit pre roll from brunch at the Country Grocerys buffet and i tripped on a congom on they away out and fell directly into a puddle of oil which normaly is fine when i fall and hurt myself ebcause nobody gives a fuck about me but the pants got stained wich is not unusual for me either but this time with motor guel or some shit but my pre roll was smoldering still and it set my ptants on fire so i dive in to the muddy ditch to put wet mut on my body to estinguish the fire and it and it shook the fuck up out of my steelos and the bursted all over me and it put out the fire but now i dont have any booze at all and my delta 7 "Fuck n chill" rocks burned tf up and i dont got nothgin left and my pants were all fucked up so i had to go home thru the woods wihtout them and it was so dark out and my peice of shit phone died even thouhg it was at 27% and i couldnt see shit and i was lost for along time so i decide to go to sleep in the woods to find my way back in day time + the animals sounds were high key scary as fuck so i cover myself in leafs and dirt and sticks and mud and other shit to hide from them and i woke up in the adfternoon still tired as fuck cuz i dont sleep good without some shit to put me asleep like my medicidne prescribed from Dr Maltlikker if U catch my drift lol or Dr thc Gummy lol if u get what im saying and these stupid little cunts with 22 rifles were plinking at me and tlaking about how they wanted to shoot my big ugly rusty head right in the head or to shoot a hole in my nippels so i got up and trioed to get them to stop i begged but htey just kept lauhging at me and shooting at me and it realy hurt my feelings so i pick one up and threw it into the sky then they all ran away screaming which is a classic "Dont fuck with honest joe,because he might try to hurt you or kill you if u piss him of moment" but the miracle of the story if that i went to walk 20 feet to findm y way out and i found my busted as shit old as fuck camry with a litle gas left ive been looking for it for a few days cuz i did a lil cruising when i was blackout and did lots of crazy shit i didnt remember at all but it was all on my story and 100 ppl were snaping and whatsapping me telling me to kill myself when i checked my huwawai thats how u know u had a crazy fcking night when u get that shit!!😂😂 but it had a litle gas left and it wasnt super busted so i was able do get back on I81 and soem stupid fcking crazy ass north carolina motha fuckas are driving insanly as fuck as usual and they keep almost hiting me while im just trying to read my fukcking phone to get rid of all these stupid messages and shit i still dont know how to use the app and its hard to type shit with my hands but eventualy i got back to my fuck buddys houe im crashing there even though he hates me now but i have nowehre left since ive been down on my luck and im realy not able to pay the bills no more with my online black jack/DarkRp trial moderator gigs and basicaly he owes me cuaz i got him 1 pack of menthols back when he was 19 and Sleepy Joe Brnadon banned them since "Freedom to do real shit" was aparently removed from the costitution when he was elected😂 but anywas now im sitting here bored as fuck with nothign at all do do cuz i got nothing to get fucked up wthi and i spent the rest of my meony on shit thats burned and blasted im realy worried i wont be able to sleep tongith since i cant get fucked up and thats when the demons starts to flow in my head i might do something realy bad to myself like pluck out my screws or some shit if u care abotu my which u probably dont my cashuapp is $pjack9 im desprate for another bottle to numb my p[ain away

Pic of my ride when i found it thankuly it still had gas😋

[amaturewoodwork]

The lighter one is has linseed oil on the panels, and the darker panels on the longer one is varnish.

With a attractive enough colour I could lure a bee

[agoodflyting]

Why Aziraphale's White Satin Pumps Are Ridiculous (And I love them)

So this is a continuation of the lengthy rant I posted here about Aziraphale's outfit in the Bastille scene of GO and all the ways it would have pissed people in Revolutionary Paris off. I got to the shoes and realized they needed their own post.

Aziraphale's Blessed Little White Satin Pumps

To recap: in 1793, Paris is in control of The People, who are making up for decades of oppression and poverty by beheading the fuck out of everyone remotely nobility-adjacent. And into this mess strolls one Angel in white satin heels.

Some facts about this style of shoe:

The buckle means they're specifically court shoes as opposed to streetwear. Buckles were out of fashion unless you were hanging out with royalty and needed to look fancy. Everyday shoes had laces by this point.

This heel style for men is specifically called Louis Heels because they were popularized by Louis XVI. Y'know... the king Paris just beheaded in 1793. Here's a pair in a similar style from the late 18th century:

One big difference you may notice in Aziraphale's shoes and the ones above is that the ones above are normal, practical leather whereas Aziraphale is wearing white satin shoes. This is because Aziraphale is ridiculous.

The Allure of White Satin Shoes

In this modern world of laundry machines and affordable shoes I feel that people do not fully understand how absolutely over-the-top ridiculous a pair of white satin shoes would be to people in 1793.

First off lets address the fact that they're white:

If you have ever known anyone who was super into sneakers, you know that keeping white shoes white is a full-time job. It was even more so in the 18th century. The fact that Aziraphale is wearing perfectly clean white shoes says one thing: "I am rich enough to be able to pay someone to clean these, and to replace them when they invariably get stained."

And they would get stained. Oh would they get stained.

Because he is not wearing them for their intended function - lazing around indoors. No, he is wearing them on the streets of 18th Century Paris. And 18th Century Paris was fucking disgusting.

Kind of like how London had its famed London Smog, Paris had its own brand of filth. A unique Parisian muck made up of mixtures of mud, offal from the slaughterhouses, animal waste, human waste, household garbage, and rotting dead animals, all mashed down into what a British visitor called, "A thick, black, unctuous oil, that where it sticks no art can wash it off."

Voltaire said: "We blush with shame to see the public markets, set up in narrow streets, displaying their filth, spreading infection, and causing continual disorders…" and called Paris a city, "Partly of gold and partly of muck."

This is a city with over a million people, with no central plumbing, and no public sanitation laws. Households threw their waste in the streets. Businesses like tanneries and slaughterhouses threw their waste right out into the streets. Horses were the main mode of transportation and nobody was cleaning up after them. It was apparently a thriving hustle that Parisian beggars would hang out in the worst areas with big pieces of wood, and charge wealthy people money to walk on the board over the worst puddles of filth.

That's where Aziraphale is wearing his pristine little white satin shoes. In a city so gross it has its own world-renowned stinking black mud.

And on the subject of those shoes, lets look at the satin part... By the 18th Century, France was no longer dependent on Asia for its silk and satin. There was domestic production, but it was still expensive. A book about the cost of living published in London in 1770 lists the price for a single yard of satin at just over 18 shillings. For comparison, here are some other things you could get for 18 shillings in London at the time:

two box seats at Covent Garden

six barrels of oysters

a really nice wig

a week's wages for a skilled tradesman

15 steak dinners

3 secondhand coats So the outer fabric alone on Aziraphale's shoes cost what it would take a skilled worker about a week to make. Again, that's just for the fabric. Since the shoes themselves were high quality, would be handmade, and required skilled labor, the shoes themselves would be expensive even without the satin. In 1788 a pair of leather gentleman's court shoes cost about 6 livres in France. By comparison, a pound of bread, which was considered a day's food for a peasant, cost roughly 10 sous. So we'll roughly estimate that Aziraphale's shoes without the satin cost the equivalent of 12 days worth of food for an average person.

And, I cannot stress this enough, he is wearing these white shoes, which could easily feed an entire family for weeks, in a city that is abso-fucking-lutely filthy with stinking, staining, sticky mud.

Aziraphale's shoes, probably:

I mean - imagine you're a normal everyday French peasant during the Revolution. You spend decades struggling to feed your family, and some dingbat walks up to you in white court shoes styled after the king you just executed. Shoes that cost more than you make in a month, which he is wearing around your notoriously filthy city with apparently 0 fucks given for the fact that they will be absolutely ruined and will have to be thrown away. (Obviously Aziraphale could just miracle them clean but you're a revolutionary peasant, you don't know that.)

And then this walking audacity asks you for cake.

Aziraphale, hon, you are so lucky they decided to try to execute you and not just like. jump your dumb ass in an alley and steal your pretty little white satin shoes.

[blondieeu]

hellcats srts. simon r.

carhusbsnd!simon who when he’s not in the front lines or not spending time with his wife, he’s working on cars.

carhusband!simon who doesn’t love anything more than you, and cars.. so what’s better than the both of them together?

carhusband!simon who always ends up fucking you in, or on his new mercedes benz because he thinks it’s so hot that he has a nice as car and a nice as lady at the same time.

carhusband!simon who always wants to take you with him whenever he goes to give the car a test drive when he’s finished fixing it.

carhusband!simon who says thinks like “wanna take this one for a spin love?” .. “i mean we gotta see if it’s gonna still be good if an… earthquake…or somethin’, yeah?” like ok simon just say you wanna fuck

carhusband!simon who teaches your kids how to change a tire, change the oil, teach your kids how to drive and if they fail their drivers test cuss the guy of failed them out because “his kids know how to god damn drive”

carhusband!simon who insists you have 2 cars even though you tell him it’s unnecessary, and just when he says once he gets the third he’ll stop.. he ends up getting a fourth, and now you’re looking for a new house with 2! garages.

carhusband!simon who on sundays gets dressed in his worn out t-shirt, jeans and work boots and goes to work in the garage on whoever’s car he was fixing that week for the “extra money” that you obviously didn’t need since his job paid so well.

carhusband!simon that uses his old skateboard to slide under the car on his back and to fix things.

carhusband!simon who works all day until supper, and when he finally comes back inside he’s all got oil stains on his clothes and work shoes, and is tracking mud throughout your chestnut brown wood flooring.

carhusband!simon who kisses you when you come out so bring him some water and a snack, and laughs when you mean mug him when you walk away and he slaps your ass.

carhusband!simon who appreciates when you just sit in the garage with him for hours just so he doesn’t “feel lonely” as you say.

carhusband!simon who cracks a lot of car jokes that literally nobody in the house understands because it’s all women who don’t know and don’t want to know anything about cars.

carhusband!simon who’s thrilled when you’re having a son so he can get him invested in cars the same way he is.

carhusband!simon who puts your name in his passenger seat side window.

bonus!:

carhusband!simon who gets you and your kids names tatted!

blondieeu xx