The Paint Job Funnies

If you ever hired someone to paint the interior of your home, you’ll understand every bit of this. I know someone who suffered through something worse [a kitchen renovation] and reported washing dishes in the bathtub. That’s pathetic.

Getting ready for a major paint job is like packing up the whole house to move out, only you don’t move out. You just unpack it all again in a few days. In the meantime, you uncover several pounds of dust and dirt. You constantly wonder where all the dust came from.

It was a week of unloading, reloading and crashing into bed before 10pm.

Before I get all snarky, I will say it’s worth the hassle. The faux finish in the dining room knocks my socks off every time I walk by. We worked feverishly to keep the pace this week. Should I ask husband to lower that lighthouse print above the hutch? I think not now. I’ll wait a week.

The main areas are a non-descript shade of warmth. The openness of the floor plan dictates the color to flow from room to room.

So I came home from work every day and enjoyed the surprises awaiting me. The off-white boring walls were disappearing fast and boy did I smile and tell the painters how terrific it looked while tripping over drop cloths on the way to greet Chloe and Bella who were locked in a bedroom all day.

Someone left a McDonald’s Apple Pie on the floor and two large coffees gone cold. How nice. A treat for the dogs?

I found pieces of furniture tucked away in the strangest places. Like a large couch in the hallway I had to climb over and crawl on in order to visit the dogs in a bedroom beyond. How was I to cook dinner with two step ladders in the middle of the kitchen floor? And every five minutes I heard masking tape snap on the sole of my shoe, like Chinese water torture.

Chloe and Bella were kept in a bedroom for good reasons. One of the painters was so laid back he didn’t grasp the meaning of the words, “Please keep that door closed to the outside. My dogs might run away from home.” Is that clear? Obviously not, to good old Sherman. His slow-motion brush strokes and sleepy southern attitude killed me because I don’t know how he managed to accomplish so much in one day, considering the fact he spent way too much time in the powder room. Seriously. He even left the fan running in there in preparation of his next visit. I surmised he had some intestinal flare-ups from overindulging in a large bag of UTZ Jalapena Pepper potato chips almost every day. Dang I hated bringing out the Lysol every night. It’s bad enough to clean your own toilets… Just lay off the chips, Sherm!

Sherman reminded me of a more severe case back in 2002 - moving day at our brand new home in Delaware. Lil, Bill, Will, and Marcus moved us in. Lil was the elder short black man who was as wide as he was tall and able to strap a piano on his back (an exaggeration but I’ve never seen a man carry such stuff). A real bull. I pumped OJ into those men to keep them moving on a 98 degree day but Lil was sufferin’ for a few hours in a brand new, sparkling bathroom. He Christened that room before anyone else could… I was concerned he might have died in there until I heard him call for more toilet tissue.

One evening I learned everything in the master bath and bedroom would need to be moved out by morning. Main question: To where?

The odd shade of brown goes so well with that ratty, red, expensive Egyptian cotton blanket that the dogs ruined, of which I talked about in a recent post. Ugh.

Again, we can’t have anything nice.

Bordeaux. Four coats of Bordeaux. Risky shade I love! It is now necessary to shop for all new accessories for the master bathroom. I can handle that with no problem. The ceiling is about 20 feet tall, perfect for a chandelier, as suggested by a friend, but I’m thinking of exotic birds. Painted. ;-)

The bathroom was a two-day job. Husband easily stored his non-beauty bathroom products under his sink. I, on the other hand, had to pack a brown grocery bag full of my health and beauty products every morning and carry them to another room down the hall.

By mid-week, the fumes from the white oil-based trim paint got thick and heavy. My delicate nostrils were inflamed and raw by that time and when I turned the oven on for dinner, the “hit you like a brick wall” odor made me believe there was a gas leak. The emergency technician from the gas company arrived within 30 minutes and assured me there was no gas leak. The oven heat intensified the fumes, is all…

The last room painted is where I’m sitting now. This “den”, facing the hot western sun, has a golf theme so we chose a relaxing olive green. Actually, Michael insisted on a dark green for this room so I agreed quickly before he became infatuated with infant-poop yellow again. Yes, he painted a sunroom in Maryland with that color and we still talk about it as much as we talk about my Pepto-Bismol pink living room.

On Friday afternoon, I waved good-bye to the painter who had my fat check in his hot hand. He also had one of our garage door openers in his glove box as he pulled away and headed for the interstate. Sh-t.

Here's a short series of Tufted Titmouse. Long series are impossible.

My camera collected dust all week so I’m dangerously low on photos.

It snowed on Monday and didn’t melt until Thursday.

Now, it’s near 80. That’s March in the Carolinas for ya.

Tip: Neosporin w/Pain Relief is great for raw nostrils.