Macho comes in all forms. So does stupidity. One can be macho, for example, by lifting something heavy that your sweetie just cannot lift. I love to do that and get googly eyes in return, as I subtly flex my muscles. If I don't bend my knees before doing this, I'll probably throw my back out. Fortunately, I've internalized the right way to do this.
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of
alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera
to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
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