She's Come Undone...

The painters are here, scraping and making a mess out of the water-damaged closet in my former computer room. Tomorrow they’re going to sand the ruined downstairs hall and get it ready for painting. That means I’ll be dealing with even more mess and stress. Joy.

Oh, no, no, no. I don’t do well with strange painters, intrusive home repairs, mistakes, strong smells, or disruptions. I become anxious and out of breath. Hyper alert. Fearful. Distrustful. Schmutz-crazed. Undone

The painter marched in early this morning, filthy shoes on his feet, paint cans swinging from his arms. The cans were filled with paint I’d told him to buy, but I’d told him to buy the wrong color. He and his dirty shoes had to stomp back outside and drive to the paint store to replace it. Damn.

Before he left, he told me that whoever painted the room used the wrong type of paint (latex vs. oil). I got so overheated and upset about both my color mistake and past poor choice of a housepainter that I had to strip off my fleece in front of him. Yep, I’ve turned into the New England Stripper. Ta da.

One of his painter guys unhinged the damaged closet door and leaned it against one improperly painted wall, but didn’t put anything between the door and the wall to protect it from being scratched. I inwardly screamed, and outwardly ran out of the room. Aargh.

I noticed that the so-called drop cloth he’d put down under the wall-scratching door and over the rug to catch the sanded paint flecks was the size of a washcloth. This means that paint flecks will cover my previously clean rug. Teeth gnashing ensued. Gasp.

Another painter arrived, reeking of stinky deodorant, making my upstairs smell like him. I can’t breathe in without smelling his damn scent. Migraine time, buggedy buggedy buggedy shoot. Ouch.

I know they’re going to make mistakes (because, hey, I made one already today), but I’m not looking forward to cleaning ‘em up. I hate feeling out of control, imposed upon and worried, as well as at their mercy, but them’s the breaks. Sigh.

I’ve lost the sun, haven’t I? Bazinga.