2002-09-05 - 2:30 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "Everybody Wants to Rule the World", Tears for Fears

Here's a "before" picture for y'all. This is the guest bathroom. Note the DARK BROWN wallpaper on the ceiling, the icky little brown tiles, the thick wood frame around the mirror. Yuck.

The wallpaper is also on the back of the door. The paper itself came off really easily, but the backing and the adhesive was still stuck. We're working on that. The tiles are an ivory color so the room should be nice and bright when we're done with it.

I was in the market the other day, and again saw the guy who appears to be an owner or manager of the place.

I thought to myself, not really in words, "I don't like him," and then started to wonder why.

At first I thought maybe I was prejudiced against him in some way. Maybe I don't like men with wattle and big apple-shaped middles. But I love John Goodman, so that doesn't explain it.

Then it hit me. I am prejudiced, but not against apple-shaped middles. I'm prejudiced against people who don't smile.

I'm fussy about people in the service business. I don't care how good they are; if they're not expressive, willing to talk at length about their work, and have a friendly smile, I don't like them. I'm not comfortable.

I mean, what the hell. It's not like the guy is having a bad day. I see him twice a week, at least, and he's never smiled once, even when I smile directly at him. What's that all about? Is it so DIFFICULT to smile? Are his smiling muscles out of practice?

Me, I'm physically incapable of not smiling back if someone is smiling at me. Sometimes when I'm feeling grouchy, Poindexter will hug me close and grin at me in a don't-you-dare-smile sort of way and I always succumb. I am a smiler. I like fellow smilers.

At the same time, I'm suspicious of people who smile too much, or have fake smiles. I'm just talking about genuine smiles, here, people. Let them out. Don't be afraid.

I'm also ... not so much prejudiced, but really uncomfortable, around people who are not expressive. If a person doesn't use facial expressions to communicate, I can hardly stand to talk to them, even just about the weather. I can't tell from their facial expression if they're having a good time, if they're amused or irritated, whatever. It really makes me crazy.

I've got a seriously bad case of roaches on the brain. It's awful. I realized that I am even dreaming about roaches (one at a time, thankfully).

Part of it is that I'm concerned about keeping them out of the house. I don't have much chance of avoiding them completely in an apartment building, but in the house, unless the neighbor's got 'em, I have a good chance of keeping them out if I'm careful. So I'm thinking about it a lot lately.

In the apartment, however, after seeing the biggest one yet (at least two inches long), I finally found out how they're getting in.

The big one was on the door jamb of the bathroom, and I screamed at it. "GO AWAY!!" (My neighbors are going to be SO relieved when we move, I'm tellin' ya.) I didn't want to deal with it, at all. It was intent on exploring, however, instead of disappearing, so I went off to look for stompin' shoes and a thick magazine.

When I got back, it was in the shower. It crawled behind the shampoo rack, where I couldn't smack it, and I was exasperated until it crawled up the tile and into the little hole where the shower head goes into the wall, out of my sight.

Hallelujah. The little metal donut that fits over the hole had come loose. I pushed it back into place and taped it shut, and it is my fervent hope that it's the last roach I'll see while we live in the box. I hope.

Poindexter and I went to Home Depot on Monday, full of printing plans, picking out an 8-foot ladder, wallpaper-removing supplies, and various pre-painting supplies (a sander, spackle, etc.). Then we got to the house and looked at the high ceilings, looked at each other, and said, "Uh-oh."

We had really underestimated how high the ceilings were. The ceiling in the living room is at least fourteen feet, meaning we need a much bigger ladder just to reach up that high without having to stand on the unstable tippy top. It's just going to be a lot of work we have no experience doing.

If it were just that we didn't like the color, that would be one thing. We might learn to live with it. But the geezer had hired a "handyman" to do the painting, and it was dreadful. He didn't do any patching -- there are nails and drywall tape sticking out all over the place -- and he didn't tape or cover any of the trim before painting, so there are glaring errors everywhere. It's pretty bad.

So we sat down and looked at our finances again and did some re-prioritizing and decided to get a professional to do the living areas. The only person who actually answered the phone (or returned Poindexter's message) was able to get himself AND a hardwood-floor refinisher to come over for an estimate yesterday.

The painter was an absolute riot. He was at least 6'4", on the skinny side, and was wearing a traditional painter's cap and white overalls. Somehow I thought real painters didn't wear this, much the way real nurses never wear starched white uniforms and caps anymore. He was full of energy, had a charming dimpled smile, and bounced around the house pointing things out.

Poindexter mentioned the "handyman" and the painter said, "Ain't nothin' handy 'bout THAT man." He called him an "ainter" -- somebody who doesn't know how to paint. Cracked me up.

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