If real beauty is on the inside, as the bromide goes, we've got our work cut out for us as we start plastering the interior of the house. Nothing glamorous, just plain old plaster applied with heavy rubber gloves. We bought and discarded several putty knife-type tools as being inferior to the greatest tool in existence - the human hand in all it's opposably-thumbed glory.
Here's a closeup of the plaster going on over the block walls. At a resale shop for Habitat for Humanity, we got a great buy on 5 gallon buckets of a latex-based sealer that will go on like paint over the plaster walls.
Concurrent with the plastering (read that as: "As soon as I get tired of pulling lumps of plaster out of my hair") we are running the rest of our water and electrical lines around the house.
Just a pipe dream? Perish the thought, this is a throne fit for a king (or queen). Listen, if you'd had to work for 3 long years to get to the point where you had a toilet indoors instead of "two bedrooms and a path" you'd be pretty excited, too.
One of the small pleasures of being your own mason is that nobody yells at you for putting your initials in the wet cement, even if it borders on mawkish sentimentality. Yeah, it's sappy and sentimental, but I like my wife. So whaddaya gonna do about it?
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