‘Professional’ Painters

I’ve always had a number to call.

The few days after John left for deployment, I was a wreck. As much as I wanted to act like it didn’t bother me. Really, the whole thing just sucked. It sucked that he left. It sucked that I couldn’t talk to him for days, weeks or months. It sucked that I didn’t know if it was days, weeks or months. It sucked that I had no idea when he was coming back. Or where we were moving when he came back. It sucks to say goodbye. And it’s awkward. I couldn’t even communicate the week before he left, and the day of, I was  mute. I could barely wave goodbye from the pier.

All of that weighed on my mind as I pulled into our apartment complex that Friday, hurrying up the stairs so I could change for a boot camp yoga class to punch it out. I opened the door, to a heavy rain. Inside. Water was pouring from the light in the kitchen, soaking through the ceiling, pooling on the floor.

I slammed the door and stomped into my room. Grabbing my phone, I called the landlord. One, two three times in a row. No answer.

Screw it, I yelled at the rain, I’m going to yoga.

On my way out I saw a plumber working below my apartment. Was it you? I accused him. Did you burst a pipe?

He looked confused. Uh, no, lady, I don’t think so.

Whatever.

I slammed my car door and squealed out of the parking lot.

When I got out of yoga, I saw that I had three missed calls from the landlord. Already in a better mood, I called him back and we chatted about his vacation, about the new pool in my kitchen and how I tried to catch the water with a pot for a potted plant (with a hole in the bottom) and a towel. He made some calls, figured out it was the upstairs neighbor who had pulled out her fridge and forgotten to turn the water off, so it was flooding her apartment, and mine.

He said he would send people over immediately to check out the damage and that it wouldn’t mold, he reassured (I have a huge fear of mold and mildew after the mold massacre of summer 2012 that destroyed all of my leather shoes).

That night I wrote an email to John about the big flood event and that I couldn’t wait to just buy our own home.

–

When John said we could hire painters for the 14 foot high ceilings,  I was thrilled, but a little skeptical. I felt on edge for a whole day. Would a big expense change his mind? Would he talk himself out of it? Would he get too motivated and want us to do it?

When my shower was luke-warm that morning, I didn’t tell him. It wasn’t until he showered later that he got worried about the state of our water heater, and I got worried that he would call off the painters.

Fortunately, it was only the settings that needed to be changed, but it scared me enough to start continually pointing out how terrible I am at painting and how we needed professionals, pronto.

John surprised me by inviting the head painter to come check out the job late that afternoon. He surprised us by saying it would cost a fraction of what we thought it would. So we all shook hands and said we would get together the next day to go over the samples.

We couldn’t get a hold of him the next day. Or the next. My anxiety levels about the turquoise paint were off the charts, and I told John to call the big boss, the person in charge of the head painter. The big boss answered his phone, and we were all set for the painters the next day.

I was thrilled when the painters arrived early Monday morning. They had matched our Behr ‘Eggnog’ color at Sherwin Williams and lugged in huge buckets, giant ladders and long roller extenders. I squeezed in and out of their path trying to get ready to hide out for the day, and they all smiled, introducing themselves, chatting about the horrid turquoise and the many layers it might take to cover it.

When I got back from the day’s adventure (trying a barre class at ‘EcoFitness’ in Mt. Pleasant), I was surprised to see how much…the same…it looked as when I left.

Think you can really do this in two days? I questioned, with a sympathetic look.

No ma’am. They firmly said it would be three.

Day two I found a local gym to try and left a little later than the day before, taking a little more time to watch them. Now instead of three, there were two. The girl who had started with them the day before had left almost immediately after coming, saying something about her boyfriend and not to tell the boss.

When I got back from the gym and the grocery store, the living room, bedroom, hallway and frog were all painted, one coat. It looked horrible. But I justified it by thinking that they were the professionals, and I shouldn’t judge until the end.

Day three, John was getting angry. I was getting tired of not being able to cook. And trying to time my showers around when they were going to be in a different room. Already running a day behind their original ‘schedule’ the guy who had initially come by to give us the quote dropped in to check out the progress.

His face read obvious displeasure, but his words were encouraging. It should only be one more day, he said. Full day? I inquired. No half. I was ok with that, I would rather them get it done right then to leave it the disaster it was.

Then John came home. He spent over an hour inspecting every wall, every edge, every unfilled nail hole. And he was not happy. He brought over the neighbor, an elderly southern man, who was equally as pissed.

This is crap! The neighbor yelled. He ordered us to not pay them before he inspected it.

John mowed the lawn, then went back to inspecting. I went to get Thai food, and, after sitting, waiting at the kitchen bar for several minutes, had to ask John if he could focus for a minute on our now cold dinner instead of the crappy paint.

The worst part? The buttery Behr Eggnog we had picked out and they had insisted on ‘matching’ at Sherwin Williams, looked a sick neon green in the hallways, and yellow with a tint of green in the living room. I was so over it. So tired of the painters. I’m ok with it, I told John. He was not.

It’s hard to capture the green in morning light. But if you look through the door, past the hall and onto the stairwell, it’s obvious.

Day four. John left for work and I was in charge of telling the painters that they needed to fill the holes, re-trim and generally just be respectful.

Just one of the deep scratches they put into our base boards.

When I got back from picking up lunch, John was home, and in a heated discussion with the painters. Pointing out every smudge on the carpet, dirty hand print on the walls, unfilled nail hole, paint drips, missed spots. I sat quietly and listened. Two of the painters left, visibly angry, but the female, a different one than the first day, stayed.

Wait, you’re supposed to paint the whole wall?

John talked a blue streak about how it was bad service. How they SMOKED in our garage. How one person ate lunch in our bedroom. How they were careless. And unprofessional. How the boss never called him back. How the color was wrong.

All the sudden this woman, who I had seen being just as careless as the men, was apologizing, saying how she would never have done it that way, how she didn’t do anything wrong.

While they were talking, I went to the garage and dug up the gallon of eggnog paint we originally bought. I went in and got the lady.

Look at this color. I said. Does that look at all like the color you painted?

She was visibly taken aback.

I’m going to get a sample of this to the boss, she said, finally realizing our true displeasure.

Before she left, she went around the house filling in every nail hole, leaving white smudges all over the walls. She wiped up all of the dirt she could find, except for the handprint on the ceiling, and said that she had talked to the boss and that he would be calling us that night. Tomorrow, she said, it will probably just be me and another guy, and we’ll go pick up your Behr paint and we should have it done in a couple days.

An example of some of the holes they had to fill AFTER they finished painting.

 

I could post a hundred of these nail hole pictures.

When she left, I asked John, do you think we’ll hear from them?

We got no calls last night. And it’s now nearly 9am and there are no painters here fixing this mess.

I wish we had already paid them, so we could take them to court to make them accountable. I have a feeling that’s the last we’ll hear from them, and next week we will again be on the hunt for professional painters.

At least from the outside, our house finally looks finished.

John got his Nebraska Husker flag in the mail yesterday. Now I just need to secretly switch it out in the middle of the night with a Giants flag….