There’s this issue that’s been making my brain hurt for some time now.
Ever since we renovated the apartment downstairs earlier this year (ohmygoditsgorgeous) we’ve been gearing up to make
about a million a few changes around our place too. It starts with the parts that are necessary (like finding a 6 drawer dresser to house both the children’s clothes now that they share a bedroom) which can quickly snowball into the dream projects (wouldn’t a skylight look gorgeous right there?) but the budget is limited. This is for two reasons that I can see: a) because the children refuse to model and make me FAT rich, and 2) no matter how much bullshit fertilizer I put on it, this money tree I keep shaking just won’t bear fruit. SUCK.
And I mentioned over here that we’re converting our library-cum-nursery into a dressing room for ourselves. I know. It’s a bit extravagant and glamourous, but we agree it’s the best use for that room at this time in our lives. And besides, I want it so very, VERY badly. So. It shall be mine.
But before we can do anything else, we need to paint. Martin is an excellent painter. He’s very careful and very perfect at it. He’s also gone from the house for about 12 hours each day, and he really has no time or energy left over to work on these kinds of projects anymore. Enter our Excellent House Painter.
He is precise. He is fast-working. He is French. We adore him.
Unfortunately, his main bread-and-butter work comes from a guy who owns condos and things, and he’s constantly got work for him… and we get pushed back.
I understand this. A person needs to work.
He says he’ll come on Tuesday… and then he says Friday… and then he says next Friday… and then it’s in two weeks for sure… and then he doesn’t call… and then he does… but only to say it will be next Wednesday…
When I walk into my house on a dark day and reach for the light switch, and come up empty-handed, I remember the plaster and the sanding that needs doing first, and that we’ll reconnect all that crap once the walls are painted. When’s that? When the painter comes.
. . . I look through the lighting choices in the Restoration Hardware catalogue that has come with the mail. And I begin weeping. . .
I stumble over all the toys in my kitchen and wonder why they’re still all over the place in here, and then I remember that the armoire will be moved into the TV room soon, and all the toys shall forever remain in said room, and I shall NEVER AGAIN step on a sharp piece of fucking lego. *tears hair out* When’s that? When the painter comes.
. . . I flip furiously through the pages of Elle Decor featuring the home of Ralph Lauren who has a life-sized storm trooper in his living room, and besides muttering fuck you under my breath every other second, I’m wondering where I can get a storm trooper of my very own, because although I have no hard-on for Star Wars stuff, the thing looks wicked-cool. . .
Goddamn broken piece of crap dresser! Aren’t we buying a new one? Can’t that please be today? Because it’s sweater season and my stuff won’t fit into this broken-down thing anymore, and I can’t cram them in this closet with these sheets AND all these jeans and it’s all… just… ruining my liiiiiiife!! *collapses into heap* Yeah, when’s that gonna happen? When the painter comes.
. . . Yes, that’s Sarah Richardson’s daughter on the cover of Canadian House & Home, with a glossy article inside featuring the country home she completely overhauled AND corrected with a massive addition on 50 acre apple orchard she bought about an hour outside of Toronto. Le sigh. I want so much to hate her, but I just can’t. C’mon money tree… BLOOM, GODDAMN YOU!!. . .
*rocks herself back and forth, shushing the children and sitting in a dark house, surrounded by boxes of de-shelved books and a broken dresser*
All I want is a little paint, please, baby Jesus.
We’ve been waiting on painter-guy like this since July. Yeah. That was three and a half months ago. At this rate, he won’t be here before Christmas.
Onto choosing someone new to paint for us. I mean, it’s paint. Oh my god, just FIND someone!!
I met with someone yesterday I contacted through and acquaintance. He was lovely – actually quite tall and handsome! I thought, Hmmm… how does one really choose a painter? Do you… squeeze him? Shall I do a sniff test, I wonder… perhaps the only way to know for sure is by tasting…” Heh.
(For the record, I did not squeeze, pinch, or bite him.)
He seems like he and his peeps would do a good job. I like that he’s planning on taping eco-friendly cardboard paper to the floors the entire time. He’s available to start in less than two weeks. JOY!!
He’s also almost twice the price of our wonderful-yet-ever-elusive painter. SUCK.
Oh, what to do… what to do??
I’m going to squeeze a painter tomorrow monring, and yet another on Monday, before I we decide.
NOTE: I’m not spoiled. Perspective is everything. I’m not stuck in a mine in Chile, you know. I just want some fucking paint, okay?