It was a mad day yesterday.
Firstly, I was litterally mad. In a sense of being mad seeing stuff laying on the floor. What is wrong with men in my house? Dirty clothes, toys, just-used towel and whatnots. I have never seen in my life that a pair of underwear will pick itself up and throw itself into the laundry bin. They dont have a pair of legs to do that and if they do I’ll use mine to run out the house scared! We live in this teeny-tiny house (3 bedrooms, 2 full baths with walk-in closet, that’s how small it is! Can you believe it? Three of us and still have to share space with a cat) so little mess will show. I’m not neatfreak but I cant stand stuff on the floor. There, I said it. Then the big bang of yesterday was that I found a sleeping bag, unfolded, laying on upstairs closet. That’s it, man, I’m kickin’ my husband’s ass for this. He gives my son a greenlight that it’s OK NOT to sleep on his bed on the weekend nights- resulting a scene of a little boy sleeping by the fireplace, right outside the bathroom or five inches away from the stairs. Perfect spot if you want to see someone rolls down the stairs in a sleeping bag like a hotdog bun on a slide. And so there was where the sleeping bag story came. He sleeps with his dad’s sleeping bag, inside the house, and he left it unrolled, untucked back in the bag.
Secondly, I have this paint project of the week (see my earlier post) and I was introduced to this foreign concept in lalaland language called “preparation” (say it with French accent). I thought painting means looking at those beautiful cards of colors in the store, pick whichever strikes your fancy and slap it on your wall and you have pretty walls. Lord knows I had no idea that I have to patch that holes in the walls (damn nails!) with that thingy that looks like white thick ice cream in the plastic jar applied by another thingy that looks like a flat spoon. Then I still need to clean the walls (whaa–? If the walls are clean, why do I need to paint??) then move the furniture away (dont you wish they have legs).
Then there’s the color issue. What I thought it would look good in the wall turned out to be, well, grey. Like a rat grey. Like a monkey grey. Too industrial-looking grey, too dark, too wrong. Back to Lowe’s.
Then of course there’s price issue. Who on earth decided the price of a can of paint? I would like to have a word or two with them. It’s just friggin’ thick liquid with color that you slap on the wall, but this is just of course my theory. 3 gallons of paint and one quart for the trimming, almost 120 bucks? What? I should’ve used my son’s Crayola instead and that should do it. And after spending that much money, I still have to patch the holes and move the furnitures? No wonder that old lady at Lowe’s smiled at me and said good luck.
So there I was, yesterday. Mad mad mad. Over the stuff on the floor, furniture to push around and wrong grey and 120 bucks I just parted from. And one day was wasted with me being mad and unproductive. Mad that my husband said “You best just go to work”. I will survive this week, I always do. I have my coffee brewing and old T-shirt on, it’s gonna be rockin’ day, baby. I’ll be high on caffeine today I’ll paint away. Mad is so yesterday. I think.