The DIY-er painting debacle

You get these ideas in your head. I don’t know where they come from. Maybe you saw a picture in a magazine of some celebrity showing off their digs. Maybe you just got tired of looking at the same four walls, or the color you picked years ago. Maybe you just figured it was time for a change, or to try to be more sophisticated, or to add something new to your domicile.

Or, maybe you thought: “Hey, my life is pretty easy right now. No major issues. No nagging headaches. Not a lot to do on the weekend except relax on the sofa with a beer and watch Formula 1 racing. How can I muck that up real bad with a house project?”

I got it: Why don’t I paint the front room?

Yeah! That sounds like a GREAT idea! (Cue music from “Psycho” when Janet Leigh gets knifed in the shower.)

Ah, painting. The DIY-er’s greatest nightmare. Worse than active sewer line repair or asbestos removal. Worse than relocating a pack of foaming-at-the-mouth raccoons from your attic and into your neighbor’s backyard. Worse than roof repair in August. Or sod-laying in August. Or that time when you were doing some flashing repair around the chimney and it almost toppled over on you … in August.

There is no home improvement project you can dream up that will be more infuriating, exhausting, time-consuming or out-and-out excruciating than slapping a new coat of paint on your walls. It is written in the Bible. It is a truth handed down through the ages. It was what Tom Sawyer desperately tried to get out of doing. (And that was just a fence!)

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The COVID-induced, back-to-school rush, rush dance

And then, “BANG!” like a starter gun, we’re off in a flash.

Hurry, hurry. Rush, rush. No time to think. Just do. No time to ponder or worry. No time to reflect or ruminate. No time to consider whether we’re ready. It’s too late. It’s here. We’re out of the blocks. Now it’s just mayhem and early-morning madness. Something akin to normalcy, only not quite normal. The “idea” of normal in an UN-normal world. And the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Because who cares: It has already begun!

And you better hurry, hurry. Rush, rush.

Yep, it’s school time again. School time in the age of the pandemic. “Fake-summer” is over, and the looming fall stopped looming and dropped out of the sky like a sack of textbooks.

It hits particularly hard in a house like mine that runs the education spectrum. My wife teaches pre-school. My daughter just started high school, and for now is taking the remote route online. I work at Flagler College, where part of my gig is teaching journalism students. Throw in the fact that we think the dog has a side hustle lecturing about French romantic poetry with an online course and it’s a world of education in the Thompson household.

After a summer of planning and worrying and speculating and trying to sort it all out, we’re all suddenly thrust back in it, just like that. And it’s kind of anticlimactic really. The starter gun just went off and we threw up our hands one day and said, “OK, I guess we’re running!”

GO!!!

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Predictions for the rest of a jinxed year

Yeah, it’s 2020. A year ruled by Murphy’s Law, that good ‘ole adage about anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And go wrong in spectacular fashion. In fact, “go wrong” might include one of your body parts spontaneously combusting, and then you get attacked by a murder hornet … WITH MANGE!

All in the actual law. Look it up.

We’re eight months into the year, and if you’re keeping track, we’ve had a major pandemic, an economic crisis, riots and unrest, wildfires in California, some weather event in the Midwest called a “derecho” (I thought that was a breakfast burrito, but apparently that’s not right) and most recently two hurricanes in the Gulf nearly colliding in an ultimate violation of social distancing. Earlier models even called for the two storms to meet on Bourbon Street, which would have just about topped it all.

So, if you’re like me, you’re asking yourself, “What else could possibly go wrong in 2020?” And if you’re like me, you should NEVER ask dumb questions like this because the universe will promptly respond: “Are you mocking me? How about I make your pinky finger spontaneously combust and send a murder hornet for you!”

We still have a rip-roaring presidential election to go, a long hurricane season to slog through and another four months before we can flick 2020 the middle finger goodbye. What else could go wrong? I’ve decided to try and answer that question with a few predictions and prognostications that might come to pass before the dawn of a glorious new year:

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The porch cat creeps on inside

So, this is what a near-death experience feels like. It feels pretty … um … furry?

Yes, furry. Not what I expected, but there it is.

Furry, and it screeches with an offended, spine-tingling wail. The sound of a feline who thinks HE has been wronged. That when he plants himself behind me while I’m washing dishes, I’m the one at fault for turning around and nearly toppling over headfirst into the oven, which is on and covered with pots of boiling oil.

Poor critter! That my near-death experience should cause him distress. I woke him from his itty-bitty kitty slumber. Boo-hoo!

“You’re a porch cat,” I cried, trying to slow my racing heart and calm my frayed nerves. “Why are you even in here?”

“Why?”

Such a good question. And one never worth asking, especially when it involves family, your house or something a pet has done. It’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it? Screamed in desperation, and if it garners any kind of answer, it’s never a good one.

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Things Floridians forget we shouldn’t do in August

Oh … right! So, that’s why you’re not supposed to get back into running in August … in Florida … when you can melt tar on your forehead.

Yeah. Oh yeah … it’s hot!

I spent all summer getting out of shape, so why not pick this perfect, balmy month to start getting back into it? It’s beautiful outside. The trees are bursting into flames. The oxygen molecules boil as you inhale them. Your shoes stick to the pavement if you stand too long in one place. And all around you, people can be heard saying: “That poor moron is gonna’ die. Look away from the running dead man!”

Welcome to August.

It occurred to me on one of these runs that we true Floridians – not exactly God’s gift to the IQ farm – never quite remember just how bad August gets. Because we’re Floridians! We like to shrug it off and say things like, “Heat? Ha! I spoon it on my cereal and eat it for … wait … which meal is that?”

We revel in the heat. We excel in the heat. We wear it like a badge of honor.

And then we get to August, remember how miserable it is and wonder why we chose to live in THIS state when people in other parts of the world are wearing light sweaters and saying things like, “Buffy, darling, can you throw another log on the fire before the guests come over for crudités? We don’t want them to catch chill.”

Man, I wanna’ “catch chill” and eat August crudités!

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Hooked on space and riding to the Heavens

Maybe it’s a desire to get out of here – to break the COVID-inspired cabin fever – but I’ve been hooked by the space bug recently. Anything space-related that might take me to the Heavens above, both literally and figuratively.

Or maybe it’s that for the first time in a long time, space is at the forefront again. There are so many exiting missions and moments and milestones. Rockets are constantly rising from Cape Canaveral. American astronauts are launching from American soil again, and splashing down in must-see events. Plutonium-powered planetary rovers as big as SUVs are Mars-bound. A tricked-out dune buggy named Perseverance stuffed with so many fascinating experiments that science geeks need therapy just to figure out which to get the most excited about.

Meanwhile, SpaceX is testing its giant “Starship” launch vehicle that looks straight out of Buck Rogers and promises to take humans to the moon and even Mars. That way actual people can ride around on the plutonium-powered dune buggy. Tee up more therapy for science geeks.

I’m fascinated by it all, too. Like how the Mars rover Perseverance is carrying a mini helicopter so it can test out flying on the Red Planet. Which to me is just the pinnacle of audacity. I take my daughter’s drone out here on Earth, and in 5 minutes I’ve made it a permanent Christmas ornament in a pine tree. But know-it-all, fancy-pants Perseverance is going to drive out into the middle of an open field, set his little bugger off and probably nail it on the first try. He doesn’t even have to worry about pine trees!

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A recovering ‘doomscroller’ tries to break free from the news

Oh, no! Am I a “Doomscroller?” Have I succumbed to this affliction? A pandemic within a pandemic? I fear I have. All the signs point to my transformation into one of these poor, wretched, ravenous beasts.

Did you even know this was a thing? Doomscrollers? That people could become one?

I didn’t either. Not until the other day when … well … I was doomscrolling on my phone, looking for the next breaking news article about how mankind was about to end. That’s when I came across this story from the Web site Wired: “Doomscrolling is slowly eroding your mental health.”

Oh, NO!

So, I doomscrolled through it and realized: Yep, that’s me. I’m a Doomscroller, all right.

The subheadline on the story read: “Checking your phone for an extra two hours every night won’t stop the apocalypse — but it could stop you from being psychologically prepared for it.”

Yikes. Punching a guy in his psychological gut. Not to mention I had already noticed funny neck pains. I thought at first they were headaches, but when I realized my neck was permanently pitched forward at a 90-degree angle, it got me wondering if the chronic reading of news sites on my phone was the culprit. Oh, and I think several vertebrae had popped out, too.

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Searching for peace and laziness in a summer staycation

Some people rave about “staycations.” Taking a week off at home where you can do any number of things like a tourist in your own town. Even enjoy the pluses of your home like you’re a visitor, not the custodian.

I took a week off this past week with just such an idea in mind. Chill out. Read a book with some tea. Go to the beach. Get that worry-free brain that comes standard on vacation. Have not a care in the world.

Do a few house projects.

Do … a … few … house … projects!

And that is when the whole staycation idea fell apart. RIP! BOOM! SPLAT!

Maybe not for everyone. Some, I’m sure, can walk about their house and tune out the little projects and problems and perplexities staring them in the face. Can see their house not as a maintenance mountain, but a relaxing, restful respite to take them away from their troubles.

But I am a tinkerer. A putterer. A Mr. Semi-Fix-It who is a bit to OCD to chill when there is stuff to repair. The kind of guy who says, “I’m going to take my tea and this good book and … WAIT … WHY IS THE FAN MAKING THAT CLICKING NOISE!?! I better get up there and disassemble it.”

So goes the week …

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COVID crisis meet high school trepidation

Come on, COVID crisis. Because going to high school isn’t, like, scary enough without you lurking around. Because I mean, like, oh my God! It’s high school, you know?

Shoot, just the thought of it has me talking like a goofy late-80s teenager.

Thanks a lot, COVID-19!

You just had to pile on with fears of contracting your virus and agonizing over whether to send my only child off to her freshman year in a pandemic. Because going to high school in normal times wasn’t hard enough?!?

I mean, most of my memories of the high school experience lie somewhere between being stuck in a vice grip and dropped in a sausage maker. Plus, I still have regular nightmares over how to say “algebraic.”

As we approach this major milestone for my daughter, I’ve found myself reliving more and more of those wonderful days. Transported back to an era when I wore clothes so bright and colorful that it ensured retinal damage to anyone who looked at me. (On particularly dry days, I could even start brushfires.) Shirts were a patchwork of different fabrics that resembled a designer hobo tent. Yet, in spite of this and my poof-ball hair, I fancied myself a pretty cool dude, strutting about the halls in my skinny legs that looked like chopsticks in a pair of oversized canvas boat shoes.

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Doing battle with the evil hot water heater

I battled you, hot water heater. I battled you because you took up arms against me. You chose to follow a path of darkness and evil. To dabble in the occult, and maybe even larceny (not sure what that is.) For many, many years you were loyal, hard-working, dependable and there for me. But something happened, and you turned vengeful and became flooded with spite.

You had been a king. I built you a castle. A house outside my home for your very own. No living in a pantry or an attic. I even put real cedar siding on for you and added insulation for the winter.

How did you repay me? By turning into a bubbling spring. A spouting fountain. A ruptured receptacle. Just like you ruptured my heart.

Imagine my shock when I bent down near your outdoor castle. (OK, it is more of a cabinet) and noticed the water streaming down the side of the walls.

“That’s odd,” I remember thinking. “This shed appears to be crying! Hot water heater sheds aren’t supposed to be crying … are they?”

Waterfalls: Yes. Portraits of the Virgin Mary: Yes. My face when another blasted appliance fails: Yes.

But hot water heater sheds: Unequivocally NO!

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