Oh no you DIDN’T!

I hate dealing with service people of any kind. This is because I am a woman and most service people are dudes. Dudes with severely diminished opinions of women.

Soon after we moved into what has become Chateau LeMar, we couldn’t help but notice how what the inspector told us was just “normal wear (nervous twitch) and tear (nervous laugh)” was more like serious deterioration.

We forked over a ton of cash on really sexy things like Hardiplank and a roof and gutters. Ooh. La. La.

Every spring and summer, I take it upon myself to wash the windows. (I do windows. I love to do windows. It’s more the result than the process, but part of it’s the process, too. Clean. Freak.) I couldn’t help but notice how the paint had started to peel away from our trim. Winter passed, another spring, and the more I scrubbed, the more it flaked.

I distinctly recall the painters haphazardly slopping paint on the trim in cool rainy weather, so I nervously called the contractor and asked what was going on. He assured me that no matter what, he guaranteed his work for five years, pretty much blowing off this Little Missy.

Four years later, and you can literally breathe and blow the paint off of the trim in long curling sheets should you walk close enough. Please don’t.

Since the Hardiplank was primed when it was installed, I guess he got a little mixed up about the trim. So he just slopped paint over that, too, even though the trim was original.

I call upon Joel for situations like this where I’d have to interact with a gruff macho painter guy. So, Joel called. And we waited a couple of days. So I called. Gruff Macho Painter Guy appeared on my doorstep not ten minutes after I hung up. I just know he’s thinking, “The little woman is home alone because her husband is the one out in the real world doing man’s work. This’ll be easy.”

He was appalled that we thought his work was shoddy, even with the peeling paint shedding all over him as he inspected the trim.

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: “This woods all wet, see? Soaked. We can’t do any kind of prep that’ll cover that.”

Me: “Um, it rained all night. The wood’s bare from where the paint’s peeled off. Rain makes bare wood wet,” and I know this because it’s in all the books I read.

He was astounded by the breadth of my meterological knowledge.

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: “Well, they sanded and oil-primed and did everything they were supposed to do,” implying that my magic witchy woman voodoo powers must have just terrified paint into jumping off window trim.

Me: “I was watching your guys on the job, and they didn’t do any prep. They just painted over what was already there.”

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: “Well, you SHOULDA CALLED ME,” talking down to me like the stupid little woman he’s sure I am.

Me: “I did call you. You told me you guaranteed your work for five years. And now you’re here.”

Wow. Did he get all incredulous on me then. This chick is a SMART ASS, his favorite kind, obviously. He told me he’d “get back to me” in two weeks.

So, for now, we’re the house on the block with the beautiful siding and the shabby windows.

“Sam, grab Momma an ice-cold Forty from the fridge, lemme pop out my teeth, and let’s sit a spell on the front stoop. Fire up my corncob pipe, Ben, and bring Momma her chew, Elizabeth.”

I’ve forbidden anything else from breaking down, falling apart or otherwise deteriorating for the foreseeable future. I’ve employed my super secret uterine powers to make it happen. Now if only I could command my estrogen to take the form of Sherwin-Williams Duration. That would impress Gruff Macho Painter Guy AND save him a trip back to the bowels of Hell!

I’m such a girl like that, willing her own body chemistry beyond it’s purpose just to save a Gruff Macho Painter Guy a redo. Tee-hee-hee!!!!