I have a bachelor’s and master’s degree in communication. I wrote a 100 page thesis about constitutive rhetoric. I manage regional public and media relations for a $20+ billion company in our largest regional office with more than 800 employees in the state. I scored 1300 on my SATs and 1220 on the GRE exam. I take quizzes for fun and regularly expect to beat all the other barflies. In short, I fancy myself a smart guy.
When it comes to paint, none of that shit matters and I rank among the stupidest people ever to have lived.
We have lived in our new house for about two months, and the biggest project we have undertaken thus far has been repainting the entire fucking thing. Why? Because the company that flipped this house, in their infinite wisdom, painted the entire interior a shade that is best described as peanut butter fudge. The exterior, for what it’s worth, was painted a hideous shade of olive green as well (which was changed to a classy shade of deep gray per our request at no additional cost). Kristin and I make fun of these shades frequently, but we recognize had these guys painted this house, I don’t know, a normal color, we wouldn’t have been able to afford it and it would have sold for its original asking price, which was about $30,000 more than we bought it for. So, thanks for having no taste, gents!
The downside to this is that painting all 2,300 square feet is a big, arduous job. And it’s made even worse by my blinding retardation when it comes to all things paint because Kristin gets to paint the entire thing herself. It’s important to clarify here that I’m not pulling that asshole husband move where I pretend to suck at some household task in order to avoid ever having to do it again. I want this damn house painted as badly as she does.
But I suck.
Three years ago in our old place, Kristin and I added a red accent wall to our kitchen. I decided I was going to get over my paint handicap and help. So I loaded up the roller and went to town on a section of the wall. Crazy thickness in parts, no coverage in others, and splatter all over the goddamn place. What the hell was I doing? I have no idea, but I could not get the hang of it. The wall looked worse and worse, and I just kept running the roller over it with all the grace of a stoned gorilla. Kristin looked over from trimming the edges of the wall with a brush, her eyes got wide, and she told me she’d handle it.
“That’s probably in everyone’s best interest,” I replied, and sat down.
One thing I’m great at is taping. My lines are clean, I’m thorough, and I can get a room banged out like a fucking boss. Kristin (along with everyone I’ve ever talked to) hates taping. Great. Anywhere I can be helpful is a good thing, because when it comes to paint, that’s not going to be frequently.
One of the tools we bought for this process was this. It’s a nifty little tool that makes the edges fly by. And it seems fairly idiot proof, yeah? Well, by the time I was done with it, the pad had disconnected from the little device, I had paint all over my shirt, and I’d managed to drip all over one of the baseboards. It was fucking ridiculous.
While painting this weekend, I was helping Kristin pour paint from the giant 5 gallon bucket into the tray, overshot the amount, and then spilled probably a half cup of it all over the drop cloth. This action prompted Kristin to say, “Jesus, when it comes to paint, you’re like the opposite of Seabiscuit.”
Indeed. Paint is my intelligence kryptonite. My handicap. That which renders me helpless and dysfunctional.
So, needless to say, I can’t wait until this fucking house is painted. Good luck, Kristin. If you need me, I’ll be anywhere else. Let me know if you need something else taped.