Whose cockamamie idea was it to paint that metal chair?
Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so — actually they seemed right up close like they always do. But yesterday I looked online and Bob Villa told me what to do to get that chair ready for painting. I took everything he told me to get and plunked it all into a Lowe’s order and picked it up curbside. Then I drove to Lowe’s and pulled into the special you’re-a-coward curbside parking, which by the way, when you pull into a spot, the sign reads: Call us to tell us you’re here at
Then after that you can’t see anything. Once you pull up you totally can’t see the sign. It’s too low. Did no one test this out at the fine offices of Lowe’s? Maybe that’s why they call it Lowe’s. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
So I had to stand up in my car like I was the Pope and call so they could bring my my coney dog to my window, along with my paint, primer, methadone, you know the drill.
Then I drove it all home and got it out of my car and got a dropcloth and got started and OH MY GOD.
I was supposed to brush the chair with a metal brush and then sand it smooth. No one would come out and tell me if that meant, “Sand the chair till it’s down to the metal” or what, so I just kept sanding. And sanding.
I was sweating like Whitney Houston. I was Mr. Sandman. I sanded and I sanded and I hope you’re getting the picture. And after like 92 hours of sanding? That damn paint was still all over the chair. I used the metal brush they insisted would work so well, and when it didn’t I put it away and found a brush exactly like it in my everything closet where I put stuff like that.
Anyway, next thing you know it was time for my trainer and you know what I didn’t need yesterday? Exercise. Oh my god they should add Sanding a Metal Chair classes at your local Elaine Powers or wherever. After all that, I had to lunge and plank and lift up my voice and what-all, and I barely made it to bed before I was asleep. I slept from 10:30 till four minutes to 9:00 this morning. I woke up and all four cats were sleeping on the four corners of the bed like the four agreements or the four directions or the four fabs.
I would have admired that longer but Alf, my absurd handyman, was coming at 9 so I was in a bit of a panic. And here’s the problem with Alf. Here’s why he earns his moniker. I stampeded outside with my coffee to prime that
as soon as Alf got there because the directions on the back said to only use the primer when the humidity was less than 65%. When I read that last night, I’d checked and we were at 64% right then but I had the trainer and then after I was exhaust pipe. So I wanted to get out there as soon as I could today because September in the South is not low in the humidity.
I just asked my Google machine and right this minute my personal humidity here is 95%. This is what I’m saying about the urgency of doing it right away this morning. I had not meant to sleep till four minutes to Alf.
“Why are you painting without a mask?” asked Alf, my ridiculous handyman, whose work was supposed to be both in the front yard and also at my sink, which needed caulked.
“If you get that in your hair you’re going to be very sorry.”
“Is that the brush you’re using?”
“Actually, I think it’s pronounced Bob Veee-la.”
“Why did you—“
“ALF,” I screeched, because we have the kind of relationship where we can screech.
So Alf made his way to my front porch, where the stucco on the stoop has a crack. But while he caulked and he cracked and he sealed and he also took down this stupid curtain that had literally been screwed into my kitchen window, during all that, he complained that I splash water too much on my counter. He complained that back behind the toaster, there were crumbs. He complained that I had a fourth cat. He complained about this. He complained about that. He listened in on a phone call and asked why I’d talked about myself. He asked why Edsel stared at him.
Finally I took out my guillotine and sliced Alf’s head clean off and had it jauntily mounted, and when his family comes looking for him—assuming they even do—I need you to cover for me.
Meanwhile, it began to rain on my primed-and-drying metal chair. Alf complained as we dragged it to the snake shed together.
“You’re gonna need to give that a day to dry now, since it’s sitting under a layer of water,” Alf said, and then lectured me on why me finding a handy boyfriend would pale in comparison to continuing to hire him. He mentioned this because I had mentioned it in my phone call, a phone call he shamelessly eavesdropped on, did I mention? Say “mention” one more time.
So that’s where it stands now. My chair, a chair I’ve named Sandy, is drying in the snake shed and I have to wait yet another day to paint it, but at least I’ve crossed fix the stoop, caulk the sink and murder Alf from my list of to-dos.