If I blink twice, it will have been a year since we moved into this house. In the eleven months since we tripled the amount of space we had to live in, we've tried to make a little headway in cleaning up the disaster zone that came with buying a foreclosure. First we focused on the kajillion plumbing issues, then some of the landscaping, and then we set our sights on the painting. OH, THE PAINTING.
The painting is still very, very, very far from done and likely will stay that way until the weather turns miserable and cold again. We did, however, manage to kick some ass in the room that mattered most--the master bedroom. In case you weren't around when we moved or you have forgotten, the master bedroom was half painted in dried cow blood when we moved in.
I wish I were kidding. I'm not.
It's a huuuuuge room and the painting was so horribly randomly awful, I couldn't even be in there for five minutes without getting a serious case of The Rages.
It took three gallons of paint to cover the walls and since there was tons of that awful red splattered on the ceiling, we had to paint that, too. That took another two gallons. It wasn't the worst painting task we've taken on in this house, but that's probably mostly because it was easily the most rewarding. See? MUCH BETTER.
The walls are off-white while the ceiling and all of the accessories are robins egg blue. I have a plan that I need to execute for getting some art on those walls, but that's not what is currently bothering me in that room. What's currently bothering me in there is that there is a spot, next to the TV, where the soothing whitish color has chipped off, revealing the anger-inducing red beneath.
It. drives. me. batty.
I notice it daily, but never at a time when I could go dig up a can of paint to fix the spot. It'll take ten minutes, tops, but I have to actually start in order to get it done. In fact, I would go fix it right this second, but Alexis is sleeping in that very bed, and you are out of your mind if you think I'm willing to risk waking her up in order to put an end to the madness that is that red spot.
It taunts me. It mocks me. It tortures me. I'd still rather look at it than deal with a cranky 4-year old.
Earlier I was helping Alexis with the nightly tooth-brushing/pajama finding/book reading project when I noticed Ali acting crazy in the bedroom. She was leaping into the air and attacking the wall. Nay, she was attacking the spot.
With a chuckle, I listened as Mr. Husband told me that she tries to attack that spot all the time. It's a little too high for her to reach, but apparently she leaps into the air and smacks at it wildly before crashing back to the floor. I picked her up to show her it wasn't anything worth having a fit over, and she went BALLISTIC.
People, she had a full on temper tantrum as she tried to murder that one inch chunk of awful red paint.
Somebody please invent a paintbrush a cat can use. Ali spends her days in that room and it sure would be handy if she would touch it up for me.