April 23, 2007

I don’t touch our barbeque ever. I think I did turn it on one time last year but I broke out in a nervous sweat and had major heart palpitations, so that was the one and only time. And it’s for good reason I should be afraid, very afraid.

I just had to have a barbequed steak, cooked by none other than my husband, who really does know how to cook a piece of cow. I trotted off to the grocery store and decided to get us decent steaks. I picked out a nice t-bone for him and a ribeye for myself. They even looked yummy in the package. Well except for the rawness and the blood. But hell, if you can look past that and not listen to the moo-ing, then you’re all set.

I arrive home with my proud purchases, my mouth practically watering at the thought of eating my steak. Hubby fires up the Q (no pun intended or maybe it was totally intended…anyhoo….) and as it’s heating up, I make some side dishes and salad and can hear my stomach growling. I beat it and tell it to be patient, that you will get your steak bizatch, but honestly, enough of the roaring.

Mr Man throws the steaks on the barbeque and takes a call that has come in. He leaves the room for a few minutes and I don’t question him about ignoring the steaks, as he’s cooked alot of them over the years and always does a great job. He comes back upstairs a few minutes later to check the steak and the flames coming out of the barbeque don’t look quite normal. And neither do our steaks. Mine was okay, not quite ruined but his t-bone was charred on one side. Wow, I’m thinking, that’s never happened before, that he ruined a steak. We sit down to eat our charcoal steaks and as we’re sitting there, I glance out at the deck and wonder why the barbeque is still smoking? Hubby assures me it’s just because it’s still hot and the wind had picked up a bit. Okay. I’ll believe that.

Hubby gets up to get more water and as he’s coming back to the table, he looks out the patio door and says, ‘hmmm I think the barbeque is on fire’. He’s so frigging matter of fact about it. Oh no problem, it’s a barbeque, it’s supposed to be on fire right? No. Not really. He goes out onto the deck and lifts up the barbeque cover and sure enough, there are huge flames flaring up. This can’t be good.

OMG what are we going to do? Should I call the fire department?

Ummm no, it’ll burn out eventually.

What? And in the meantime, we should just sit here and eat while our barbeque is on fire? Shit,what if it blows up? Panic is setting in. I’m actually afraid of barbeque’s blowing up, ’cause that happens all the time’.

It’s not going to blow up. Do you think I’d be standing this close to it if I thought it was going to blow up?

I don’t know. Maybe you’re a barbeque daredevil. I really think I should call the fire department.

Ah no, that would be silly. It will go out.

I don’t think so, look at the flames. Did you turn the gas off? OMG are you sure it’s not going to blow up? It’s so on fire that you can’t even reach down to turn off the gas! What if it blows up? I’m not sitting here any longer. I inch my way away from the table, head towards the bedrooms.

Where are you going? You’re not going to eat? Come on, the barbeque isn’t going to blow up.

Yes it is. I can just tell. Look at those flames. And that tank has propane in it. Propane blows up, I know it. Panic is making my voice high pitched and totally annoying.

Get a grip. It’s not going to blow up. Oh look at that, 2 of the knobs have melted right off.

OMG see?????????????? Melting knobs, flames, then BOOM. I can feel it. I’m calling 911.

No you’re not calling 911. Be reasonable. You’re getting freaky now, it’s not going to blow up.

Okay, sure and when we’re all laying here in a pile of dust and debris, I’m going to kick you right in the balls for letting us blow up.

Okay, you do that.

We watched as our $650 barbeque (that I got for a fabulous deal and paid only $399! Okay I digress…….) got nice and black on one side and as the flames died down a bit, hubby got some water to throw on it, which we both knew was not the right thing to do but at that point, I wanted the flames out. I was near hysterics and was practically packing the kids up and heading out the front door because I was so afraid. I think I was being totally fucking slightly irrational but I couldn’t help it. I’m a freak like that. Things blowing up seem like a real possibility to me especially when, you know, THEY’RE ON FIRE. So much for having a nice steak in the near future.

April 17, 2007

Oh that’s what you’re gonna be when you read this. You just wait and see.

Last week, I decided to get ambitious and finish painting my son’s room at the new house. He’d requested his room be done in a ‘Scooby Doo’ green, so basically it’s a bright, you need to wear sunglasses type of color. It’s definately cheery.

I had started painting a couple of weeks ago, had put a coat of primer on and thought, well, I’d better get my butt in gear and get the top coat on. So I walked my daughter to school and then went across the street to the new house. I was full of piss and vinegar, set to get that room done by the time the bell rang and she was out for the day.

Everything started off pretty well. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, so I went around and opened all the windows in the house, including the window in my son’s room. I went downstairs and grabbed our kitchen chair (not one of the new ones we purchased but one we’d brought from our current house) and took it up to son’s room because being 5’2″, there’s no way I’m going to reach the top of the wall to paint around the ceiling. Well I guess if I had Gumby arms or I was Inspector Gadget, then maybe. But God didn’t make me that way, he gave me standard length arms, so I’m shit outta luck on that I guess. Anyway, moving on now…….

I get the paint opened and stirred, my brush set out, paint roller and tray and am pleased that I’m so organized. I plug in the radio and crank some tunes, spring breeze is blowing in through the window and although I do not like painting one bit, I felt joyed that I was going to surprise my son later that day with a completed room.

However, before I could start painting with the top coat, I had to cut in around the ceiling with the primer, as I had not done that previously. Hubby was going to do it for me since I am a loser painter not the best painter in the world. He, however, didn’t get around to it since he’s working 15 hour days. So, I figured, I would just go ahead and get it done. I mean how hard is it to cut in at the top of the wall? Piece of cake.

I poured some of the primer into the paint tray. Did I mention the primer is tinted too? It’s even brighter than the actual paint, more like a dayglow, you will be blinded kinda green. I pick up the paint tray and my brush and get up onto the chair. I’m starting at the wall that the door is on. Across from the window. Why am I telling you that the window is across from where I am? You’ll see.

As I’m painting, cutting in, I’m thinking to myself, wow, you’re doing a damn fine job. I thought for sure I’d have green paint smeared all over the white ceiling but nope, I was hot. On fire with that paint brush! After about 5 minutes or so, feeling very proud of myself that, indeed, I was doing a damn fine job cutting in, I felt something. I had on a short sleeved top, a very pretty one I might add. And my arm felt wet. I looked down to my left arm and didn’t see anything. I go back to painting and again, felt something wet. I look up at the ceiling. Why? Apparently I’m retarded and thought, wow, is the roof leaking? You know because often, when it’s warm and sunny out and blue skies, your roof leaks and then you get wet under your arm. I hate when that happens. Gah. Again I look down at my arm and still see nothing but I can feel wetness under my arm, near my elbow. Then I realized something. While I was busy painting, dragging that brush back and forth, cutting in at the ceiling, I forgot that I was also holding a big paint tray. With green primer in it. My brain apparently, can’t do too many things at once and while I was singing and painting, I was also pouring the entire paint tray of primer onto my clothes. Green primer. Ya, that pretty top, wasn’t so pretty any more. Oh and my fav jeans, well, let’s just say, they are not at the top of the list anymore.

So there I was, holding a now near empty paint tray, a brush and standing in a big pool of green, that was now smeared all over my feet and the chair and dripping onto the floor. Thank the holy mother of all that is good, that I had put a drop cloth down. Can you imagine the look on my husband’s face had I had to tell him we really should replace the carpet in Ryan’s room? Why honey? Oh, well you know, because. Because it’s kinda ugly now with that giant sea of green paint smeared in it. Whew that was close.

Okay, let’s breath a sigh of relief, the bitch didn’t ruin the carpet. However, I still have the issue of wearing the paint. And my feet and left arm are not their normal pasty white anymore. I’m glowing. And not from happiness. I swear I stood on that chair for at least 10 minutes, wondering what the hell I’m going to do?

I set the brush into the tray and bend down as far as I can and drop it onto the covered floor. I look down and assess the mess. It ain’t pretty. My left foot is completely green and since I’d been stepping in the paint on the chair, under my foot was coated too. The whole left side of my shirt and pants were covered and dripping. The chair was ruined. What to do, what to do? I realized I had no choice but to strip right there and hopefully limit the mess to the area I was in. I gingerly look off my top, careful not to get green paint in my hair. I balled up my shirt and tossed it on the drop sheet. I then took off my pants, getting green paint all through them with my covered left foot. Nice. Very classy. So there I stood, with a totally green foot, green arm, partially covered green right hand and foot, in my bra and panties, on a wet, paint covered cloth chair. Then it hit me. I’m standing directly across the window. The open window. The one with the blinds pulled completely UP. And staring at me are the houses of my future neighbours. Good Lord. I panicked and jumped off the chair, realizing, damn, what if I don’t land on the drop cloth? Oh no need to worry about that, since I landed in the paint tray. Great, now both feet were equally green. I rubbed them as much as I could with a big bulky paint cloth and crawled on my hands and knees across to the bathroom, where I proceeded to wash my feet in the tub. Panick was about to set in, thinking, what in hell was I going to wear home? I didn’t drive, so I can’t even sneak out to my van and drive home half naked. Then I realized, I had brought some clothes over and they were hanging in my closet like a best friend, waiting to wrap me in her embrace. I had nothing that was springy so I had to opt for a big thick winter sweater and a pair of wool dress pants. Great my friend was making me sweaty and itchy.

I went back to the bedroom and grabbed my clothes and proceeded to wash them out in the tub and did succeed in getting most of the paint out of my top. My jeans, well, may they rest in green peace. They will never be the same. I know what you’re all thinking. Why would someone wear something NICE to paint in? My husband asked me that very question. I don’t have a very good answer. I said to him, ‘well I never thought I’d be pouring a litre of paint on myself’. Because that just doesn’t make sense. I mean come on, who’s ever heard of that? The room did get finished though and it does look great. I will post a picture of it soon, and be sure to wear sunglasses when you look, I don’t want to be responsible for your blindness. Oh and here’s a tip: When painting your son’s room, hire a professional.