less than perfect

Okay, forget what I said in my last post. Perfection is overrated.

As a type A, I usually appreciate attention to detail, but Joe and his dad take it to extremes. They won’t let me paint a single wall in my house. They obsess over dings and dents that are invisible to the naked eye. They trimmed out a recessed box for the washer and dryer hoses. As in, behind those appliances, where no one will ever see.

I keep telling them that we’ll be living here, not selling museum tickets, but it doesn’t stop them. I am trying to keep their expectations as low as possible because I am a born klutz, Izabelle is worse, and we have a cat who is destruction with a tail. And I do want to move in within the year.

After my third day of literally watching paint dry in the bathroom, I left in disgust today and went over to my brother- and sister-in-law’s place. They redid their master bedroom and I’ve been wanting to see it for a while. They have three cats.

Joe’s dad helped them spackle, and the story goes that after two day at it, Mike said enough was enough, and threatened to throw the spackle knife out the window. And the place still looks great.

I may have to call him about confiscating some paint brushes. Otherwise, I fear a perfect murder happening soon.


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