A year in the life of my family room.
I love my girlfriend. That’s a true statement; its truth is undiminished by the fact that I was obligated to write it.
“You can write whatever you want,” said she, “as long as you first write that you love me.”
“But I do love you.”
“Then write it.”
See, she’s painting the family room. Again. Actually, there should be two of those: again again. It’s the third time in a year. The first time was right after we bought the house; the room had hideous cheap wood paneling, and I completely supported the idea of painting.
So we (well, mostly she and her friend Sarah) coated it in a nice yellowish color. Very bright. Airy. I loved it, and she did too.
For three months. Then she stopped loving it. My affections are more lasting, apparently, since I saw nothing to see wrong with it. It was true: in fact, the color hadn’t changed. The walls hadn’t morphed. No blemishes marred its latexy surface.
“It’s so UGLY,” she explained. “I can’t even stand to be in this room.”
“But…but…”
“We’re painting it.”
“But…but…”
“You won’t have to do anything. I’ll get my parents to help.”
This was true. She did get her parents to help. The part about me not having to do anything was a lie. I had to do lots of things, partly because I’m obsessive and I don’t like people doing things to my house without me being involved. And partly because it doesn’t look too good to sit out in the yard sunbathing and drinking margaritas while your girlfriend and her parents smear their lungs with paint fumes.
So we (well, mostly they) coated it in a nice, um, yellowish color. Very bright. Airy. And, yes, even I must admit, it was much better than the last yellowish color, which by comparison looked like diluted snot from a radioactive baby.
So there we were; nice yellowish color, no angry-girlfriend’s-parents, and a little tipsy from the paint. Nothing to complain about.
Until this spring, when there were suddenly many things to complain about. The yellow was garish. The built-in (which we had painted shades of green) looked like a rejected Partridge Family set.
“I can not STAND this room,” she said.
“Oh, heh…um.”
“We’re painting it.”
“No, but, wait…you said…”
“Blue this time. With white trim.” She said the word “blue” like a crusader would say the words “holy grail”.
“Don’t worry,” she was quick to add. “You won’t have to do anything.”
Can lies be detected using those infrared fish-spotting gadgets they sell at Target? Because if they can, I definitely DO NOT NEED ONE OF THOSE.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said, or rather, thought about saying as I watched her sticking up paint swatches throughout the room (so we could get used to the color).
But she had read my mind, and then ignored me. It was not a joke, we were again (again again) going to paint the family room.
Well, today was the first day. I got home to the sweet, woody smell of the oil paint she’s using on the window trim. And I have to say this about her; she may be infuriating, but she can paint a room like nobody’s business. I guess she’s had practice.
I am happy/sad to report that it looks great so far. The white trim is going to be clean and crisp, and the blue wall-color will make the second yellow look like a not-too-distant relative of the first yellow.
My involvement has been far from zero (no thanks to that damned infrared), but it also hasn’t been too bad. And though I am (quite rightfully, I think) fed up with having the family room repainted, I can safely say that it’s going be spectacular when it’s done.
The only thing that worries me is the possibility that she’ll never stop painting it. For the most part that’s not a problem, but after a while the walls are going to get thicker and the room’s going to get smaller.
Ah, but what am I worrying about? We’ve got at least a few thousand coats before that happens. That’s like, at least three more years.