Yesterday afternoon (after I went to the library and blogged) I happened to be across the street at Carl's talking to him about the Old Homes Tour when he brought up that the guys I work with have not helped me on my own house at all. Carl was explaining to a friend of his that I've asked some of the guys for help and gotten no response whatsoever. Carl's theory: "It's that they're Yankees, honey. They weren't raised right. A good Southern boy helps a lady."
As I started back down the sidewalk laughing, Carl said, "I see you got over your fear and got that front gable painted." I stopped in my tracks and looked up at my house. Front gable painted yellow. Obviously two coats. Front friezeboard painted dark green, also two coats. I turned to Carl, eyes wide and jaw dropped. "It wasn't me, Carl!" He laughed. We had our suspicions as to who painted it.
Later that night those suspicions were confirmed when I saw White Trash Bob walking past the pizza place where I was having supper with my bestie. I ran down the sidewalk, found him in the library and shouted, "You painted my front gable!" (In a voice way too loud for the library, by the way.) He grinned, "Why yes, I did."
White Trash Bob is evidently a good Southern boy.