Ohhhh Fuuuudge

Does anyone remember Amelia Bedelia? She was a maid that should have been fired. She tried to make bread rise by lift the pan of bread by a rope to the lamp? Whatever she touched she lovingly messed up. I blame her for my struggles. Maybe if I read Martha Stewart How-To books I wouldn't have messed up the wall.

Probably not.

A couple years ago I hot glued a flag onto the bedroom wall. The reasoning of gluing it was simple. It would not damage the wall. You can easily pull the glue off the wall and it does not peel the paint. At least it doesn't on a cinder block wall in a dorm room.

Paint on drywall?

The paint peeled. It would not be an issue if there was not nine layers of paint on the wall. I didn't even touch the drywall and there are large chips in the wall.

Ohhhh, fuuuudge.

Only I didn't say "Fudge." I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the "F-dash-dash-dash" word!

(I will give you 10 points if you can name that movie. When you get to 30 points you get a baby polar bear)

It's okay. I can fix this. I begin tearing through boxes trying to find the white paint I acquired to paint a bulldog. I've used it several times to touch up base mouldings after I destroy them with the vacuum.

After opening seven boxes and unpacking another three, I have to admit defeat.

The paint is gone.

Fudge. (No polar bear cub for you)

Okay, I can fix this. This is nothing Home Depot can't fix.

I walk in and am greeted with thirteen white swatches. Good, my apartment is white. I can do this. I look at the different swatches, and find the one that matches the paint I had before.

I may not remember where my cellphone is, or where my shoes are, but I know the white ended in 25.

Done.

I jump onto the bed with the open container of paint, prepared to fix the wall.






You thought I spilled it on the bed didn't you?

Nope.

I painted a small part of the chipped paint. The paint is slightly lighter than the original paint, but not by much.

Okay, that's cool. Wet paint is always a tad lighter.

I begin painting a bit more. It looks okay, nothing I would brag about, but I paint the chipped bits then a little bit around the area to blend it in.

It did not blend.

Fudge. (no polar bear)

Okay, okay, okay. I can make this better. Maybe.

What if I painted around the area a little more and then it can look like the original paint wasn't done well?

Crazy talk.

Unless you are going to repaint the entire room, do not make the area that you messed up, bigger.

I've inserted panic mode.

All I could think was, "Chris is going to kill me."

Luckily, Chris did not kill me when he saw the racing stripe on the wall. He also didn't kill me when he saw the dents.

I have a wonderful husband.

I do need to go back to Home Depot and find the correct shade of white. I don't know why there are so many variations of white. Who came up with that idea?

Back to Home Depot I go, to find the correct white, and enough paint to cover the chips and dents throughout the apartment.

It's Been a Rough Month

In the last three weeks, I have had my car crashed into, signed more paperwork than Aerial did when she sold her soul to Ursella and have been trapped in a stairwell. February was an awesome month.

The insurance company has a pool going on what hit my car. The most likely explanation on why I had two dents. One at shoulder height behind my back passenger window, and the other on my bumper, is a very angry beaver with a hammer. Damn those beavers.

The parking spot I normally leave my car in, is at the bottom of the stairs of our apartment. It sits fairly close to the giant garbage compactor for the complex. I heard a crashing noise about 4, nothing new. I went outside about 430 and there was a very nice, hand sized dent in my car. Chris found the dent in the bumper. The body shop found the spare tire base was crooked.

Chris told me to call the non-emergency line for the police to see if we needed to fill out a police report.
Any witnesses? No (the one time no one is looking out their window)
Private property? Yes
Sorry, can't help.

Lovely.

The insurance company took my claim, and I only had about 12 people call me back, trying to figure out how I could have two dents in my car. They were also confused that this happened in a parking lot, where I was parked.

No, I do no drive sideways.

In the process of getting my car squared away, I was also signing my life away to the escrow company that is holding our house. Aerial only had to sign one document to grow legs, lose her voice, and put her soul in jeopardy. She should have at least, had to show ID.

I just want a house.

One million documents later, with a million signatures I might be able to close on the house.

Maybe. Otherwise, I'll take the mermaid tail-fin.

Before I can acquire a tail I must figure out how to get out of the stupid stairwell. This is a good lesson, in why you should always have your cell phone on you. Always.

Also, take the elevator. Always.

I like to take the stairs, sue me. The new rule for taking the stairs, is make sure the door does not lock behind you. I entered the building's lobby and headed for the door that said stairs on them. Yeah, those were maintenance stairs.

You can get in, but you can't get out. I have a new appreciation for the guests at Hotel California.

I tried pounding on the doors at every floor, hoping to get someone's attention from a nearby office. Nothing.

I tried slamming the walls, hoping to grab the attention of whoever had the office next to the stairs. Again, nothing.

Time to think rationally. Something I do not do well.

Okay, if there was a fire, if you have to be able to get out. I sprinted down the steps, until the stairs ended at a door leading to what I could only hope was the garage, and unlocked. Because let's face it. No one is calm during a fire, and people may not have their keys to open the door to get out of the burning building.

Thankfully, the door did open. To a closed and secured garage. Okay, if cars can come in, then they must be able to get out. I walked around the garage, found the garage door, and then the large green button that said open.

I can only imagine what the security people were saying as they watched this on film. I left the garage, circled the building, entered the lobby, again, and pushed the button for the elevator. It wasn't until I was leaving the floor did I see the lovely grand staircase on the other side of the lobby.

Oops.

It may not be easy being green. It's not easy being an adult either. Always have your cell phone.