Every year our hood has a block party, and the neighbors gather to share food, conversation, and brewskis. It’s an opportunity to get to know everyone better, and inevitably, the topic of home improvement comes up.
The womenfolk lean toward home decor. It’s how I always lean, so I am more than happy to join in any discussion regarding furniture, bedding or paint. At a block party several years ago, I was telling some neighbors that I was in the midst of striping the walls in our bedroom. Oh my, they were excited and could they see how it was coming out. Well, it’s a mess in there. I’m halfway done. We know how that goes, they said, and we don’t mind one bit. Well, it’s just that the whole room is torn apart and I’d rather you see it when it’s done. No, no, no don’t worry about that. Well, o.k., but give me a few minutes to pick some stuff up. And by a few minutes I meant a day and a half.
I ran up the street and into the house, and geez, it smelled funky in there, but I was frantically picking up the living room and hiding toys and clothes and throwing dishes in the sink when they knocked on the door. I hadn’t even made it to our bedroom to pick up and what is that smell??? I took them upstairs, turned some lights on and started telling them the process of striping the walls. And the smell was definitely worse up there. Then, as if a beacon was shining upon it, all at once the eyes of three women landed on the pile of dog shit in the bedroom. Oh, geez, oh gosh, oh I’m sorry, oh that dammed dog, oh let me clean it up and I’ll finish explaining what I’m doing.
But it was too late. My budding career as the newest design talent on the block was forever and always a victim of turds.
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