I woke up this bright Sunday morning to the following question:
“When are we going to paint the house?”
Huh? What? Am I having a nightmare?
“When are we going to paint the house?” Marieta asked.
Indeed, this was a nightmare. Only real.
I was inclined to answer “sometime this century,” and then roll over and go back to sleep. But I knew I couldn’t get out of the discussion so easily.
“The walls look perfectly fine to me,” I replied. “Look, there’s not a scratch on them. Why do we need to paint the walls?”
Marieta pointed out that the inside of our house hasn’t been painted in 11 years. Actually, it’s been 11 years and 2 months, but I figured by admitting it’s been two extra months since the last paint job, that wouldn’t help my side of the argument.
We bought this house in June 2004. When we moved in, the walls had a fresh coat of paint, mostly a tan color. Now, 1,726 bottles of wine and two cats later, the walls look as good as new. The color still matches the furniture.
“Ask normal people how often they paint the house,” Marieta insisted. “Write about it, and see what the readers say.”
Who said we were normal?
And so, here I am pleading with writing to my readers, wanting to know the protocol for painting the inside of a house. How often should the interior be re-done?
I should point out that Marieta insists that we do the entire house all at once. That involves moving lots of heavy furniture. If there’s one thing I hate in this world, it’s moving heavy furniture. We did that once already earlier this year when we ripped out two floors worth of carpeting and installed hardwood flooring. I thought the carpet looked fine, too. But I lost that war discussion. I sure as shit don’t want to have to move heavy furniture around all over again, unplug all the electronic equipment, and basically live like a starving refugee for a week while the whole house smells like turpentine.
In fact, I was prepared to surrender and immediately call the painters, until the next stage of marital negotiations. That’s when my nightmare got worse.
“It’s not just the walls that need painting,” Marieta said. “The ceiling needs to be painted, too.”
What! The ceiling! Who paints the ceiling?
Upon further examination of the ceilings, I realized that would probably double the price. The ceiling is all uneven. It almost has an oatmeal texture to it. I don’t see the point in painting that. Who cares about the ceiling?
“The ceiling is ugly,” Marieta said. “It’s got 11 years of grime, dirt, dust, cat hair — you name it, it’s up there.”
Actually, 11 years and 2 months, but I digress. Besides, I don’t see any cat hair on the ceiling. Now, shit’s being made up.
“If the walls get painted, the ceiling has to be painted, too,” Marieta demanded.
So, what does that involve, I asked. What do you do with all the furniture if they’re painting the ceilings? Where do we put the furniture?
“They have to cover everything up,” Marieta said. “The whole inside of the house has to be covered.”
Suddenly, the entire Dalla household looking like an ebola internment camp flashed into my mind.
“I still don’t understand why we need to paint the house,” I pleaded. “Go to the fanciest French restaurants in New Orleans. Those walls haven’t been painted in 150 years. And those are world-class establishments.”
“Yeah, that’s why the whole city looks like a dump. Because the walls haven’t been painted in 150 years!”
“That’s the charm,” I insisted.
“That’s not charm! That’s filth!”
Marieta loves New Orleans. She even said we can move there someday. And since most of our house is done in that motif, with ironwork and fleur-de-lis’ just about everywhere, this was my last chance. I figured if I played the New Orleans card, moved all-in, and lost — I’d end up drawing dead.
Well, I played the New Orleans card, moved all-in, and lost.
“This isn’t Galatoire’s in the French Quarter,” Marieta snapped.
Still, I’m clinging onto one last desperate shred of hope. Please — let this all be a nightmare. It’s just a bad dream, right? Yeah, that’s the ticket. In just a few short minutes, I’m going to wake up, roll over, see Marieta sleeping blissfully, realize this was just a hallucination, and continue to doze off in peace.
Let me wake up from this nightmare soon. Please.
Otherwise, it all comes down to this: Does anyone know a good painter who will work cheap? What do “normal people” have to say about this? I’ll even take some Republican support if I can get it.
Emergency Question: If I lose, how do I postpone the painting until after football season?
More background on Marieta: READ HERE
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