That’s Not Paint. That’s The Stain of Death.

Honestly.  People need to leave some projects to the professionals.  Just because you can’t afford new hardwood floors doesn’t mean you should try to put down carpet yourself and in the process accidentally staple-gun your girlfriend’s bischon frise to the floor because you like to consider yourself a “man’s man” who can drink beer and operate pneumatic machinery.  Fluffy is not a dust bunny. And your pair of sunglasses is not the proper eye protection.  I found this post on Apartment Therapy’s site this morning and I had to laugh.  All the DIYers out there never mention the projects gone wrong.  This is somewhat of a relief for me as I am not great at “doing it myself.” I also love this comment left by a reader:

“There is the wall in my living room that I tried to paint so it would subtly mimic the clouds in an adjacent painting. Instead, the wall looks like an unfortunate victim of a party where some one drank too much Blue Curaçao and threw up all over.”

Here is my follow-up question: Was there ever a point that you stopped and said, “Huh. This sort of reminds me of 1990 – 1992.” No? And who says, “Hey, those clouds in that painting would look great on my wall. I would like to “subtly mimic” them by painting my wall the color of Blue No. 1. Let’s give her a go!”

Someone should stop me if I ever:

1. decide to “subtly mimic” the pattern Destro’s crusty dried drool makes on his water bowl mat.  That will not add a classy feel to the walls.

2. decide to blow up pictures from the wedding.  That one where the camera caught my crazy eye will not get any better cropped and larger.

3. decide to make pillows out of the jeans that no longer fit.  The pockets could hold my used tissues after I cry myself to sleep.

4. decide to make miniatures of  The Hubbs and me and our hypothetical children.  Playing with dolls is #6 on the Reasons To Get A Job/Someone Should Be Worried list.

5. decide to upholster our armchair in recycled hospital linens.  That’s not paint.  That’s a stain.

don’t be alarmed. it’s just a flesh wound.

 

not as bad as it looks.  forgot a pan handle was hot- 450 degree hot – right out of the oven. awesome.  another reason not to talk to me while i’m wielding kitchen utensils or dangerous objects like cucumbers.  i can’t discuss paint colors and remove a pan off a hot burner and remember it just came out of the oven.  gray-blue, not blue-gray! aaaahhhhh – that’s hot!!!! the hubbs made me hold a bag of ice. if burned, do not hold a bag of ice. i should probably call my mother before she sees this post. please excuse the hair. it’s hard to manage at the moment.  i’m thinking some pretty fabulous shadow-puppeteering will ensue shortly.  i have already mastered “the fish.”

What’s Your Style? What’s Your Stilo?

Hark!  I hear the call of a scheduled closing!  On a new house.  Not the previous house we “closed” on in December.  Pffff.  On a Monday we canceled a contract.  By Friday we were in a new contract on a new house.  And The Hubbs is still down with painting the living room gray-grey, whichever you prefer.   Speaking of design, my eyes are red and puffy and slightly crossed due to hours scouring the blogosphere for ideas.  Here are some of them (click on the pictures for links to their origin).

I will be using these orbs as a bra holder or a “brolder.”   Yes, they are positioned on the mantel in this picture.  I like to display my orbs wherever possible. 

I’m figuring out these design blogs.  There are so many of them. I think they rival food blogs.  And now I can’t decide which I like to look at more, food or style.  I have, however, decided that it isn’t a good idea to take a nap in the bushes.

Please watch your step.  Rufus, my giant rabbit has yet to be house-broken.

Oh, Scarlett.  You look divine in your old age.  And those curtains!  Girl, it is working for you.

Mirrored furniture is such a great idea.  Now, I can check my make-up while grabbing extra plates for the additional dinner guests that didn’t call.  See if they get pie.

Lastly, this chair comes with a set of magic markers.  I would not advise drawing your face on the seat.

Go bless Awerica

Trying to buy a house listed as a “short sale” is equivalent to accidentally shooting yourself in the face.  You survive, don’t worry.  You’re rushed to the hospital where the medical team miraculously saves your life, but in order to do so they have to remove both of your arms and you lay in your hospital bed in your private hospital room that is too bright because the last nurse forgot to turn off the overhead beam because she was crying too hard over her husband’s latest decision to quit his job to sell whey protein shakes with his cousin and you can’t turn it off because you have no arms and then the phone starts ringing and the nurse comes in to answer it and she starts squealing and holding her free hand in the air, shaking it back and forth while hopping up and down and she yells at you that it’s Harpo, that it’s Oprah’s people and she asks you “Aren’t you excited? Don’t you want to talk to them?  They want to interview you about your face and your arms!” And you lay there because it’s hard to answer questions when you’ve been shot in the face, but the nurse takes your silence as a “yes, I would like Oprah’s producers to interview me” because who wouldn’t want to be on Oprah? She could be a huge stepping-stone to book deals or a mini-series or an action-figure and you bet she smells nice, too.  So, the nurse tells them “yes, yes, yes!” and you wait and wait and wait and Oprah’s people never come because they decide to go with the lady who got cut in half in a string of unfortunate events that culminated in her legs getting caught between a China Lodge IV building and a fallen sign that said, “Go bless Awerica Fried rice 2min.”  Fortunately, the local news does a spot on you and the owner of a boutique sends over a package containing a mannequin’s arm and leg along with a note that says “Sorry we didn’t send two arms. Neil isn’t back from break yet.” So, you look them over with your good eye and decide that maybe these will fit and you admire the shapeliness of your new arm-leg and you feel good.  You feel good because now you have an arm and an arm-leg and that means things must be looking up…

Keep Your Flooms To Yourself

Somewhat coherent thoughts on being sick…

I would give up my left big toe to be able to breathe through one nostril.

Trying to breathe through congestion is like trying to suck a sponge through a straw…a straw that is stuck up your nose.  Also, I think I may have actually blown some of my brains out and now I can’t remember how to multiply two digit numbers.

When The Hubbs and I are both sick, sleeping in the same bed becomes impossible.  We tried to stay together, but I woke up with a used tissue on my head.  He is now in the guest room until he’s better.

I still hate chamomile tea with honey.

Laundry really doesn’t do itself.  That’s ok, though, because I think we wore the same clothes for 3 days in a row. 

The poor dog is mixing his own drinks now because mummy can’t get out of bed to do it for him.  Hopefully, he won’t take a vengeful poop in my shoes downstairs while I have my head stuck over the humidifier.

Congestion makes my voice sound funny over the phone.  “Hi, I’d like to order a large pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms, please” becomes “I’m an old ping-pong and your fancy hush-hush flooms are sleazy.” We never did get our pizza.

Daytime television causes uncontrollable eye-twitching.  I think it’s stress.  I don’t care about that “vintage” picture frame that is supposedly easy to sand down and repaint.  No, I do not want to purchase a commemorative coin or a motorized recliner that will take me anywhere.  Yes, you did say her husband was a no-good womanizer and she’s right: You are a hussy!

If you stare at a popcorn ceiling for long enough, it becomes one of those Magic Eye pictures.  Our bedroom ceiling has a mural of a serene landscape with horses running through a field.  I think they’re headed to the Starbucks located above our closet door.

Tissues with aloe are slimy and do nothing to calm the skin on my nose.  In fact, my nose is threatening to pack up and leave and, if it can be arranged, take my right eye along.  Then, I will be nose-less and only have one eye and I will still be sick.  But at least I have a good attitude, right?