Don't mean to shout, what with all the exclamation marks, but there is just no other way to describe it.
About two weeks ago, my four-year-old got car sick, and thought he was being helpful by throwing up in my purse. I heard the retching sounds from the back seat, and his sweet little voice saying "its ok mama, I didn't get any on me or the car, I just used your purse." Um, thanks kiddo. So I found out that identification and bank cards can survive soap and hot water. Thank goodness I had left the checkbook at home.
So that weekend I decided to celebrate having such a clean debit card with a little retail therapy. On our budget, with four kids and one income, that means going down to the local thrift shop to look for half price tags. So I left the kids with their Daddy and headed out.
I found some wallpaper for 3 dollars a double roll. Bought two. Turned out to be the most costly 6 bucks I ever spent in my life. This is going to be a long story, hang with me for awhile if you want to.
The main bathroom looked alot better after I put the blue and white plaid pattern on the walls (although I looked much worse after staying up till three in the morning putting it up). So far so good.
So the next night. afer the kids were asleep, I decided to stay up late and paint the ceiling white. It soon looked nice and bright---but I am a sloppy painter, and had paint all over me, and it was dripping down onto my night gown. That is, it was staining my nighty, until I got all sweaty and tired of trying to keep the gown clean, and decided the bathroom was an acceptable room to be naked in, anyway, and well....lets just say I learned more about myself than I ever wanted to know standing on a chair in front of the bathroom mirror, reaching over my head with a paint brush. And did you know that hot water and soap don't remove the latex from your belly button on the first try? Just a little PSA. Tuck it in your hat and keep it in case you need it someday.
Should have been well and good-- nice bright ceiling, new paper, even a co-ordinating border. I was going to take my bright-bathroom-owning self into the kitchen the next afternoon and make a nice dinner for my husband and boys. Felt like a real woman of all trades, what with being able to redecorate
*and* cook. But first I had to take care of all those paint specks on the floor.
Well, I was too tired to scrub the wood tiles, far too tired. But I wanted to be superwoman. I wanted it perfect. And didn't I once see some stuff labled "paint remover" somewhere in the carport (note: the phrase "somewhere in the carport" should really, when it pops into my head, be followed by horror-flick music, kind of like the cords they play right when the guy with the issues finds the ax. Messy things happen when I go lookin' in the carport). So I found the can of paint remover, and dumped big globs of it on the splotches. I was doing such a good job, it was gonna be great!
But I soon found out that my wood-tiles were really tiles-painted-in-wood-colored-tape tiles. And did you know that paint remover likes to eat tape?
At this point I sat down on the edge of the tub and cried, while my poor sons (4, 9,11, and 15) looked on. And if not for hubby coming home and cooking, the paint remover would have been the only thing eating that night. I did not cook dinner. I went to bed.
But the next morning I woke up thinking "Hey, wait a minute, it was just a thin line of tape. like polyurethane. And didn't I just see a can of polyuthane floor sealant (dum, dum, tee-DUM, cue the horror movie music) *out in the carport.*
The story goes from bad to worse at this point (and where in the heck was the band in my head, that's supposed to warn me to beware of "out in the carport" thoughts. Maybe they were on a break, maybe I just wasn't listening. Who knows). I tried to seal the floor, with the bathroom window open and fan running for ventilation, and the kids cozy at the other end of the house, because I am a smart house fixer-upper. Yep. Except did you know that water can get behind peel and stick tiles, and foor sealant will not seal anything wet? And that two days later, we still couldn't get to the tub, what with the sticky floor grabbing our feet.
So on the third day, I had another inspiration (also perspiration, see above about the bathtub access problem). I grabbed my instruments of destruction, i.e. a meat cleaver and a metal pancake turner, and went to work. Hours later, I was back to square one, with nice clean plywood.
And my story ends with a roll of vinyl from the remnant store, and a tired woman with flecks of white paint in her hair. I guess I could come up with some pithy little moral to my tale, some little proverb like "beware of false bargains." But thats not my point in taking up so much of your time here, and besides, I am not sory I did this. It looks really cool. So I guess I'll just say that I wrote all this to explain why I haven't been around much. Really, it was nothing personal, just a long term thrift store episode.