I have PTSD. Yes, Paint Trauma Stress Disorder.
I realized it this morning, when I was trying to roll paint neatly onto a horse-chewed and hardware-cloth-covered piece of curled, weathered plywood without dripping or sagging. I got to thinking about how stupid that was, and kind of laughing at myself, and something occurred to me that I had sort of blotted out of my memory.
When I was married, seemed like I was always painting something. Wife loved to decorate the house, changing trim and wallpaper and fiddling with colors, and it always seemed to involve me on the wrong end of a roller handle. And I wouldn’t have minded that so much except that there was always a test, y’know? And I never once passed that test, and it got on my nerves. I couldn’t ever just paint something without there being this big critique. So when I wasn’t married anymore, Lazy Joel said that meant he didn’t have to paint anymore. Or if he did, nobody got to criticize how neatly the job turned out.
And with that I rolled a big glob of primer onto the roller cover and jammed that SOB through the hardware cloth and smashed it down flat until it smooshed out over the plywood.
And I had this guilty moment, like Smeagol getting caught plotting aloud to murder hobbitses in their sleep. And right about then J came ’round the corner, looked at what I was doing, and said, “Oh, yeah. That’s covering good.” And kept walking.
And so I smiled and did it again. Take that, trompe l’oeil wainscoting.
Huh, I didn’t realize that there was a “right” end of a roller handle. Have I been doing it wrong? I do agree, though, that marriage and paint seem to go together.
The right end of a roller handle is the one someone else is holding. Preferably while you are elsewhere, drinking a cold beer and not being nagged.
Painted a room for my M-I-L a few years back. Told her I would of it under one condition. She could not talk to me while I was doing it. She managed to keep,her mouth shut, but,I,though,she was,going,to,strangle holding it in.