I made it through another week. And managed not to post about the Disney trip like I said I would, either. Well, things have been happening at an astounding pace, so I'm not going to apologize... I'm just going to sedate myself and curl into the fetal position. And, really, isn't that what life's all about?
So I'm still supposed to close on the house the 25th. Assuming, that is, that I'm not locked up by then for some pesky homicide charges.
WHAT?!?!
I'm going to kill me a man. Or two. Okay, maybe just all of them. Keep it simple. Why should I be the only one to benefit? If I just take them ALL out, then women the world over will probably breathe a collective sigh of relief. And party like it's 1999.
You think I'm kidding?
Okay, the first one on the list is my house painter. Well, not my house painter, but the painter that the builder of the home I'm buying hired to repaint the interior of the house. Why, you may ask, does the house's interior need repainting? Because, dear reader, the man chose, in his infinite wisdom, to paint my beautiful house a color somewhat approximating what one finds in a baby's diaper... after one has fed said baby a non-stop diet of sweet potatoes and creamed corn. Yes, it was a stroke of brilliance on his part. Right up there with the Flowbee and the Edsel.
Anyway. Part of the contract to buy the house is the condition that the house will be repainted. Repainted to a color that I can actually live with. One that doesn't make me go cross-eyed. Or vomit. And there's a man who has been hired to accomplish this mission. He's allegedly an experienced painter, 30 years in the business, blah blah blah.
And I think I'm going to have to kill him.
I had picked out a color, see? A lovely soft grey/green. Nice and neutral, really. Soothing. Calm. I went by the house yesterday to check on the tiles in the bathroom, make sure they were going to match the colors I'd picked for the bathrooms. He had already started painting upstairs in the playroom, so I went up to take a look. That nice grey/green I'd picked out? Looked something like Pistachio ice cream. Isn't it Pistachio ice cream that's a screaming pastel green? Why, yes, I believe it is. And that's what was going up all over my walls.
Oh, HELL, no.
So then I proceed to go 9 rounds with the aforementioned painter about whether or not the paint he bought reflects the paint on the chip. You can SEE that it doesn't, but he's arguing that it does. Horseshit. When you put it on the paint chip, yes, it's close... except for the whole PISTACHIO GREEN thing. But he's implacable, and it really comes down to a personal perception (and COLOR BLINDNESS, for fucks' sake) issue, so I end up saying FINE, I'll pay for the cost of replacing the paint out of my own pocket! Just make this shit GO AWAY.
Then we move on to the next problem. 'Cause Mr. Painter Man? Sees no reason to use a primer. It was in the CONTRACT, one coat of GODDAMNED PRIMER, but he seems to think that primer is nothing if not unnecessary. Asshat. I explain, as nicely as possible, that it is in writing, that I will have a coat of primer. He says, and I will paraphrase here for the sake of creative license, that putting primer on the wall is just a plot by the paint stores to sell you product you don't need, thus furthering their objective to achieve world domination, and that, furthermore, anyone who tells you you need to cover a dark, nauseating color on the wall with primer is, in fact, a complete and utter idiot.
(...)
Do you see what I'm dealing with here?
I barely made it out of there without sticking a spork in his eye. I had one in the car for just such emergency situations, FYI. But no, I left with as much of my remaining sanity as I could gather, waiting only until my car was halfway out the driveway to call and unleash the fury of hell on my realtor. Not AT her, since she'd done nothing wrong and I love her to pieces, but in her general direction.
*sighs*
Hopefully this will get resolved today. I'm trying to remain optimistic. Really. See? *smiles toothily*
Oh, and just for a general bit of knowledge, for those of you who I've been too lazy and/or traumatized to call, Ray isn't living here. 'Nuff said about THAT.
I'm now going to go and make some coffee, start some laundry, and try to glue my head back on. Wish me luck. Or don't, as the case may be. I had some lovely offline messages on one of my messenger programs this week... someone with an axe to grind and no life to speak of felt the need to pop back up, after months of solitude and contemplation, and jab me with some ugliness. So, obviously, there's still that percentage of the population that hopes I get malaria and die a slow and festive death. Well, everyone's entitled to their opinion. When they figure out just how to handle every horrifying situation in life with grace and perfection, I hope they write a book and share it with the rest of us. Until then, I'll just keep stumbling along and doing the best I can to cope with life as it comes at me.
Isn't that what you do?
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