Tagged: Mamma mia

Never ask me to paint your house.

So Mi Madre decided to remodel our yoga studio a little while ago, internet, and today was Paint Day.

Before Paint Day, I thought that I was pretty good at painting.

I thought wrong. 

We had Mamma Mia, my Padre, my roommate Varenka, another studio employee, and Bob the Builder (the remodeling guy) in to help with stage one of the painting. Varenka and I were assigned a new set of shelving to prime for painting, while the rest of the crew were spackling, taping, and painting the rest of the space.

Varenka and I looked at each other.

Shelving? we thought. Easy peasy. 

We were so wrong.

Maman, fearlessly painting without a tapeline.

Maman, fearlessly painting without a tapeline.

Me, emulating MIchelango.

Me, emulating MIchelango.

It turns out that Varenka and I are horribly inept at painting, which is funny, because I have a degree in Studio Art and I SPENT MOST OF THAT TIME PAINTING. 

However, Art painting and painting painting are apparently not at all alike.

Art painting you can splash some contrasting colors on a ripped canvas smothered in a mixture of baby oil and chicken feathers and call it a day.

Painting painting you have to actually pay attention to.

Varenka and I spend a whole hour with our entire torsos shoved into these shelving units poking around with paintbrushes while everyone else in the room apparently magicked the paint flawlessly onto the walls.

After about two hours of this, at which point Varenka and I had essentially finished nothing and the rest of the room was essentially done, Bob the Builder took pity on us and casually mentioned that we could use a paint roller.

It still took us another hour to finish the damn thing.

Not cleanly.

Not well.

But we finished. 

Triumph.

Notice the flawlessly painted walls surrounding the mess we made. 

It then took both of us another hour to clean off the paint which had bonded with our skin at a subatomic level. I still have paint clinging to me in places I do not care to mention.

I guess at the end of the day we both felt that us being in the studio that day was slightly more helpful then us not being in the studio, which is something.

Right?

BAHSTON- The beginning.

Hey internet. Mamma Mia and I are on the road to Bahhhston. Its 9:36 pm and life is pretty good, although we’re driving through the middle of nowhere and we have 26 miles left in the gas tank and the broken-down-in-the-woods-ax-murderer-fantasies are starting to kick in. Y’know, like they do.

I’m writing this on my phone because I’m literally too lazy to reach down and pull my computer out of my purse, which should give you an example of exactly the type of hot mess scenario we’re dealing with here. This little mini-vacay is coming at just the right time in my life, people.

Okay. Mom and I found a gas station. Fab.

Okay. Gas station is closed. Less than fab.

Okay. Pumps aren’t working either. Panic zone.

If you had a choice between an ax murderer or a sudden zombie uprising while stuck at a super sketchy gas station in the dark, which way would you go?

Just asking.

Mums and I are forging on the road into the wilderness, bravely, with 24 miles left on the dash and no hope of – oh theres a sunoco right down the street, nevermind.

9:48. Back on the podunk roads. Starting to think longingly of the lobstah rolls of Bahston.  Haven’t eaten in thirty minutes. Might in fact be starving to death, slowly.

10:27. I just mowed down a Subway six-inch like my life depended on it. If you’re on the fence about the oven roasted chicken, I heartily recommend it.

Side note – Jackson Hewitt is not a good name for a tax place. Sounds like a hardware store. Or a men’s clothing line that only sells luxury utility kilts and spats or something. Maybe ties made out of leather and oven mitts. Or not.

10: 43. My new goal in life is to open a chain of stores called Jim-Tom’s Inconvenience Store. We’ll have the same stock as a Quik Mart and put everything in super illogical places. It’ll be like a novelty store, only irritating and with less macrame.

11:23. Stopped by a Hampton. They only had two smoking rooms left, but the totally amazing woman at the desk let us go take a look (smell) before we committed. Had to hold back a giggle at the fact that 420 is apparently a smoking room, because of course it is. 

11:25. Rooms smelled like that scene on Mary Poppins where they dance with a bunch of chimney sweeps. Not having it. The lady at the front desk called a nearby Clarion and haggled down the price for us, LIKE A BOSS. Completely, blatantly, lied about having already called another hotel already who were “willingta go lowah on the price”. Saved us like 40 dollars LIKE A BAHS (by the way, if you were wondering how much I’m willing to exploit going to Boston to use weird spellings on my blog this weekend, the answer is AS MUCH AS PAHSABLE).

11:a time. Checked in. Immediately drank a glass of warm white wine. Ice machine was broken, yet we forged ahead.

Beddy times.

Night, internet.

Seriously, get Bitstrips.

Accurate representation of how this trip’s gonna go down.