I knew when we moved it would happen, it always does, either after a move, or after a few years when Mommy gets bored. The painting.
Not painting like Aunt Connie. Painting like Mr. Green Jeans. Lots of blood, splash and tears. Mommy trying to untwist her pretzel shaped body to reach the high spots, Daddy being as helpful as Curly on Ecstasy. Mommy getting frustrated. Name calling. Daddy sobbing. Days not fit for man nor York.
It started in the hall bathroom this year. The prune people build houses with some kind of vinyl print on the inside walls. Mommy hated the vinyl print. She wanted to paint it. The neighbors said you can't paint these walls. But with Mommy where there is a will there's futility.
It took six hours for Mommy and Daddy to prime the little bathroom. Since the print was put on the wall while it was being built, the print went under the molding, and no matter how hard they tried, or yelled at one another, or sobbed, they either got paint on the molding or not enough paint on the wall.
Mommy is rarely defeated but this time she knew she would have to throw in the Pocket. Speaking of Pocket how is it possible she got covered with primer when she wasn't in the same room with the primer? Like trouble, paint finds Pocket and sticks to her.
Daddy, who would hire someone to do everything but sleep for him if he could, got on the computer and put out a request for a painter. One called, and came the next day. He looked over the house, said he could use one coat of primer and two layers of paint and he'd be done in two and a half days. I went to him, stood on my back legs, and barked he was wrong: "Run away from this home and never look back," I begged. But some slope noses don't listen to dogs. The term for these people is "over budget."
On Wednesday night Mommy and Daddy began to take down all their little displays they have around the house which are special to them and too high for me to care a fig about. Then they began to stuff the front porch with furniture. The next morning was chaos. A bureau was placed on my bed. My blanket was hid in a closet. My comfy recliners were tipped on to the new chocolate love seat we bought to replace the couch Aunt Jodi stole. My little chair from
was put on the porch, as was the leopard vagina kitty condo (Brody's Mom just giggled and when that happens an angel dog gets her wings). Pocket and I were running around the house upset by all this consternation and without a good place to sit. Then the painters arrived.
You may ask why us dogs care about what color a wall is being painted? Aren't we color blind? Yes, we are. But only the color of people. These painters were chocolate. They were very nice to us, and we don't care about nothing else. But you get a bunch of white people in their 70's all living together in a village in Massachusetts a chocolate man has to be snuck in like we were a stop on the underground railroad. During the day we heard there we 60 calls made to the missing person bureau of the North Carolina state police by our neighbors.
Me, Pocket, Mommy and Daddy were all sent to the porch. It wasn't too bad. There are lots of windows that open wide. There is a ceiling fan. Daddy dragged the glider outside for Mommy. It was like camping out. We all snuggled together. Mommy and Daddy played games and answered e-mails on their phones. Pocket and I barked at people going by. Oh be joyful. A couple of times Daddy told Mommy she should go check on the painters because all the rooms were being done different colors,
sometimes two colors in the same room, and painters are easily confused. But she assured Daddy that she had gone over with the painter, who was named Jo Jo, several times, what colors the room should be painted and she had every confidence in him.
He came out and announced he was finished with our bedroom. He went to check on the other bedroom then came out confused. Which bedroom was which he asked. When Mommy said the one they did on that day was the master bedroom he hung his head then led us into our bedroom, which was a beautiful bright pink. I thought it looked very nice but apparently that was supposed to be the color of our grand babies bedroom. So the entire day had been wasted. But that was OK. Daddy even said we might grow to like it.
Daddy and Mommy put the whole house back together including our regrettably pink bedroom room. It did not grow on us. It was like sleeping inside a nuclear reactor. It was obvious we were going to have to tell Jo Jo to get back, get back, get back in that room he painted wrong.
Now, Daddy spent more than 20 years working in the projects, and unfortunately, in our little town, most chocolate folks lived in the projects. Daddy remembered a painter who used to come in looking for guys he hired for day work. The guys were never up, or weren't where they were supposed to be, and Daddy would tell the man he couldn't be counting on these project guys. The first day when Daddy met Jo Jo he didn't want to ask him if he was that guy. He didn't want to make it look like all those guys looked the same to him. I don't know why. All you humans look the same to us. You all smell different though. But finally he asked Mr. Jo Jo and Mr. Jo Jo said it wasn't him and then Daddy and Mr. Jo Jo shared a laugh over how silly the man was trying to get help in the projects.
The next day Mr. Jo Jo brought a man to help him. The man looked at Daddy and said "I know you, you're Ted from the projects." Another case cracked by Pocket Dog Private Dog.
Friday on the life boat attached to the front of the house wasn't too bad. It was not real hot and there was a breeze. The helper from the projects was enchanted with us pups. He told us how he trains his pups. This is your nose. This is your mouth. These are your ears. Man, with Project dogs you got to start with the basics. He says he tells his dog "go get my shoes," and they get his shoes, "go get my paper" and they get his paper. They are waiting for the day he says "go get my shot gun" so they can blow is butt out the living room wall and into the yard. Get your own gun grandpa.
They got done around five and Mommy and Daddy put all the furniture back in the living room and our no longer regrettably pink bedroom so we call could sleep in it. We got a good nap and a little while later we climbed into our bed. The painters would be arriving at 7:00 and so would the heat.
The furniture was broken down and covered up again. All the wires were unhooked. Jo Jo told us he should be done by the end of the day. This was good news because Bailey, the Queen Mother, our 14 year old cousin ,was coming for some rest and relaxation away from the craziness that is her house with an overactive Boxer and two girls under 11. The Queen Mother likes to sit in a chair all day and not move. Having a bunch of painters over was not going to make her a happy Queen.
Let me tell you pups, it was hotter than Kansas on the porch. I panted more than a transvestite at a Lady Gaga show. Halfway through the day Jo Jo told us he was going to have to come back on Monday. He didn't work on Sunday because he went to church on Sunday and he needed to pray for delivery from the evil on this horrible modular home.
When they left we were told they could put the living room and bedroom back together and Daddy started to quickly move the furniture in. Now let me ask you something. After 17 years of marriage shouldn't you know that every single piece of furniture moved back into place needed to be wiped down, Windexed. buffed and polished? So he would bring in a piece of furniture, and Mommy would clean it, which is absolutely the right thing to do, any sensible person could see that. Then Daddy would bring in the next piece of furniture and stand there holding it while Mommy perfected the last piece of furniture, which, again, is only proper. And, since everything was piled into the middle of the room, what better time to use the Murphy Oil Soap on the hardwood floors, so down on your knees Daddy. Mommy cleaned, scraped, buffed, and blow torched every speck of paint that landed on the floor until she had ruined her body for all other men. Daddy kept reminding Mommy that they had to get done by 7:00 because he had told the Queen Mother's Mommy not to bring the Queen Mother over until 7:00. She brought her at 6:30. After the Queen Mother's entourage left Mommy and Daddy finished cleaning the house, Pocket barked at the Queen Mother non stop, the Queen Mother ignored her. We went to bed before 10:00 which is unheard of in these here parts and looked forward to having a snuggle Sunday except Daddy mentioned something about going to church to pray for delivery from
the evil of this horrible modular home.
Snuggle Sunday started out fine, until Mommy tried to put the cinnamon buns into the oven and the door fell off. It seems the guy from the projects tried to move the stove by using the door, snapped the hinges, shrugged his shoulders and said "this is white folks business." So we had to rely on Daddy to put the door back on which is like saying we had to rely on Charlie Sheen to drive us cross country. After three and a half hours of yelling, swearing, loud house shaking, hinge snapping,whining, crying, finger pinching, thumbs bashing, hernia rupturing fun, the stove door was on, and half our snuggle day was gone (Pocket Dog Private Dog Interlude: "I saw the old timer was having trouble getting the Franklin door to close. I got Legs Foley to do an Internet search. My suggestion was to use my roscoe to plug some holes in the old coal burner. But sure enough Legs punched some keys on her fancy typewriter and found instructions on how to put the door back on. I tipped my tail, not looking for pay, Pocket Dog Private Dog don't work on the Sabbath, and eased my way over to the Queen Mother for a screening of the flick Arsenic and Old Lace.")
Daddy had thought that on Monday, since the bedroom was done, we could stay there for the day, in bed, with the air conditioner turned on high. But Mommy found places for them to paint in the bed room so, after setting up the rooms again, we went to the porch, where the mercury was near the top of the thermometer. Daddy dragged the recliner out this time so me, Mommy, Pocket Dog Private Dog, and the Queen Mother could all lay there in a sweaty ball. The heat put us asleep. Daddy too. He napped on the floor. When Mommy and I woke up we saw Pocket sleeping next to us, and the Queen Mother on the floor. We were hot, thirsty, hungry, desperate. It became obvious we would have to eat one another to survive. I suggested we kill Pocket but Mommy said she was too bony. The Queen Mother was a little chunky but Daddy had some good meat on him. We decided to kill both the Queen Mother and Daddy but then the Queen Mother awoke, went to drink the last of our precocious water, spilled it,and awoke Daddy as it went down his back. Our plan foiled, we boiled on our life boat attached to the house.
Finally Jo Jo came out and thank the Heavenly dogs he said he was done. We were delighted. But Mommy had to investigate the house before we got out of the life boat. She reemerged from the house and said Get back! Get Back! Get back and paint that wall Jo Jo. So we kept waiting. I lay on my side, on the floor because it was cooler. At one point I saw a perfectly painted house, but alas, it was a mirage. Finally they came back out. They were done. Mommy went back to cleaning, and Daddy to holding furniture while she did, but they didn't work for long, the exhaustion monster had caught up with them.
So our house is now painted. No more men coming in and out. And no more trapped in our life boat. A little while ago the Queen Mother's Mommy picked her up and returned her home. She was warm and snugly and even though she took up too much room on the bed and Mommy's lap. So here are some picture of our rooms. I hope you like it. If not let Mommy know so she can yell at Jo-Jo "Get Back!"
Not painting like Aunt Connie. Painting like Mr. Green Jeans. Lots of blood, splash and tears. Mommy trying to untwist her pretzel shaped body to reach the high spots, Daddy being as helpful as Curly on Ecstasy. Mommy getting frustrated. Name calling. Daddy sobbing. Days not fit for man nor York.
It started in the hall bathroom this year. The prune people build houses with some kind of vinyl print on the inside walls. Mommy hated the vinyl print. She wanted to paint it. The neighbors said you can't paint these walls. But with Mommy where there is a will there's futility.
It took six hours for Mommy and Daddy to prime the little bathroom. Since the print was put on the wall while it was being built, the print went under the molding, and no matter how hard they tried, or yelled at one another, or sobbed, they either got paint on the molding or not enough paint on the wall.
Mommy is rarely defeated but this time she knew she would have to throw in the Pocket. Speaking of Pocket how is it possible she got covered with primer when she wasn't in the same room with the primer? Like trouble, paint finds Pocket and sticks to her.
Daddy, who would hire someone to do everything but sleep for him if he could, got on the computer and put out a request for a painter. One called, and came the next day. He looked over the house, said he could use one coat of primer and two layers of paint and he'd be done in two and a half days. I went to him, stood on my back legs, and barked he was wrong: "Run away from this home and never look back," I begged. But some slope noses don't listen to dogs. The term for these people is "over budget."
On Wednesday night Mommy and Daddy began to take down all their little displays they have around the house which are special to them and too high for me to care a fig about. Then they began to stuff the front porch with furniture. The next morning was chaos. A bureau was placed on my bed. My blanket was hid in a closet. My comfy recliners were tipped on to the new chocolate love seat we bought to replace the couch Aunt Jodi stole. My little chair from
was put on the porch, as was the leopard vagina kitty condo (Brody's Mom just giggled and when that happens an angel dog gets her wings). Pocket and I were running around the house upset by all this consternation and without a good place to sit. Then the painters arrived.
You may ask why us dogs care about what color a wall is being painted? Aren't we color blind? Yes, we are. But only the color of people. These painters were chocolate. They were very nice to us, and we don't care about nothing else. But you get a bunch of white people in their 70's all living together in a village in Massachusetts a chocolate man has to be snuck in like we were a stop on the underground railroad. During the day we heard there we 60 calls made to the missing person bureau of the North Carolina state police by our neighbors.
Me, Pocket, Mommy and Daddy were all sent to the porch. It wasn't too bad. There are lots of windows that open wide. There is a ceiling fan. Daddy dragged the glider outside for Mommy. It was like camping out. We all snuggled together. Mommy and Daddy played games and answered e-mails on their phones. Pocket and I barked at people going by. Oh be joyful. A couple of times Daddy told Mommy she should go check on the painters because all the rooms were being done different colors,
sometimes two colors in the same room, and painters are easily confused. But she assured Daddy that she had gone over with the painter, who was named Jo Jo, several times, what colors the room should be painted and she had every confidence in him.
He came out and announced he was finished with our bedroom. He went to check on the other bedroom then came out confused. Which bedroom was which he asked. When Mommy said the one they did on that day was the master bedroom he hung his head then led us into our bedroom, which was a beautiful bright pink. I thought it looked very nice but apparently that was supposed to be the color of our grand babies bedroom. So the entire day had been wasted. But that was OK. Daddy even said we might grow to like it.
Daddy and Mommy put the whole house back together including our regrettably pink bedroom room. It did not grow on us. It was like sleeping inside a nuclear reactor. It was obvious we were going to have to tell Jo Jo to get back, get back, get back in that room he painted wrong.
Now, Daddy spent more than 20 years working in the projects, and unfortunately, in our little town, most chocolate folks lived in the projects. Daddy remembered a painter who used to come in looking for guys he hired for day work. The guys were never up, or weren't where they were supposed to be, and Daddy would tell the man he couldn't be counting on these project guys. The first day when Daddy met Jo Jo he didn't want to ask him if he was that guy. He didn't want to make it look like all those guys looked the same to him. I don't know why. All you humans look the same to us. You all smell different though. But finally he asked Mr. Jo Jo and Mr. Jo Jo said it wasn't him and then Daddy and Mr. Jo Jo shared a laugh over how silly the man was trying to get help in the projects.
The next day Mr. Jo Jo brought a man to help him. The man looked at Daddy and said "I know you, you're Ted from the projects." Another case cracked by Pocket Dog Private Dog.
Friday on the life boat attached to the front of the house wasn't too bad. It was not real hot and there was a breeze. The helper from the projects was enchanted with us pups. He told us how he trains his pups. This is your nose. This is your mouth. These are your ears. Man, with Project dogs you got to start with the basics. He says he tells his dog "go get my shoes," and they get his shoes, "go get my paper" and they get his paper. They are waiting for the day he says "go get my shot gun" so they can blow is butt out the living room wall and into the yard. Get your own gun grandpa.
They got done around five and Mommy and Daddy put all the furniture back in the living room and our no longer regrettably pink bedroom so we call could sleep in it. We got a good nap and a little while later we climbed into our bed. The painters would be arriving at 7:00 and so would the heat.
The furniture was broken down and covered up again. All the wires were unhooked. Jo Jo told us he should be done by the end of the day. This was good news because Bailey, the Queen Mother, our 14 year old cousin ,was coming for some rest and relaxation away from the craziness that is her house with an overactive Boxer and two girls under 11. The Queen Mother likes to sit in a chair all day and not move. Having a bunch of painters over was not going to make her a happy Queen.
Let me tell you pups, it was hotter than Kansas on the porch. I panted more than a transvestite at a Lady Gaga show. Halfway through the day Jo Jo told us he was going to have to come back on Monday. He didn't work on Sunday because he went to church on Sunday and he needed to pray for delivery from the evil on this horrible modular home.
When they left we were told they could put the living room and bedroom back together and Daddy started to quickly move the furniture in. Now let me ask you something. After 17 years of marriage shouldn't you know that every single piece of furniture moved back into place needed to be wiped down, Windexed. buffed and polished? So he would bring in a piece of furniture, and Mommy would clean it, which is absolutely the right thing to do, any sensible person could see that. Then Daddy would bring in the next piece of furniture and stand there holding it while Mommy perfected the last piece of furniture, which, again, is only proper. And, since everything was piled into the middle of the room, what better time to use the Murphy Oil Soap on the hardwood floors, so down on your knees Daddy. Mommy cleaned, scraped, buffed, and blow torched every speck of paint that landed on the floor until she had ruined her body for all other men. Daddy kept reminding Mommy that they had to get done by 7:00 because he had told the Queen Mother's Mommy not to bring the Queen Mother over until 7:00. She brought her at 6:30. After the Queen Mother's entourage left Mommy and Daddy finished cleaning the house, Pocket barked at the Queen Mother non stop, the Queen Mother ignored her. We went to bed before 10:00 which is unheard of in these here parts and looked forward to having a snuggle Sunday except Daddy mentioned something about going to church to pray for delivery from
the evil of this horrible modular home.
Snuggle Sunday started out fine, until Mommy tried to put the cinnamon buns into the oven and the door fell off. It seems the guy from the projects tried to move the stove by using the door, snapped the hinges, shrugged his shoulders and said "this is white folks business." So we had to rely on Daddy to put the door back on which is like saying we had to rely on Charlie Sheen to drive us cross country. After three and a half hours of yelling, swearing, loud house shaking, hinge snapping,whining, crying, finger pinching, thumbs bashing, hernia rupturing fun, the stove door was on, and half our snuggle day was gone (Pocket Dog Private Dog Interlude: "I saw the old timer was having trouble getting the Franklin door to close. I got Legs Foley to do an Internet search. My suggestion was to use my roscoe to plug some holes in the old coal burner. But sure enough Legs punched some keys on her fancy typewriter and found instructions on how to put the door back on. I tipped my tail, not looking for pay, Pocket Dog Private Dog don't work on the Sabbath, and eased my way over to the Queen Mother for a screening of the flick Arsenic and Old Lace.")
Daddy had thought that on Monday, since the bedroom was done, we could stay there for the day, in bed, with the air conditioner turned on high. But Mommy found places for them to paint in the bed room so, after setting up the rooms again, we went to the porch, where the mercury was near the top of the thermometer. Daddy dragged the recliner out this time so me, Mommy, Pocket Dog Private Dog, and the Queen Mother could all lay there in a sweaty ball. The heat put us asleep. Daddy too. He napped on the floor. When Mommy and I woke up we saw Pocket sleeping next to us, and the Queen Mother on the floor. We were hot, thirsty, hungry, desperate. It became obvious we would have to eat one another to survive. I suggested we kill Pocket but Mommy said she was too bony. The Queen Mother was a little chunky but Daddy had some good meat on him. We decided to kill both the Queen Mother and Daddy but then the Queen Mother awoke, went to drink the last of our precocious water, spilled it,and awoke Daddy as it went down his back. Our plan foiled, we boiled on our life boat attached to the house.
Finally Jo Jo came out and thank the Heavenly dogs he said he was done. We were delighted. But Mommy had to investigate the house before we got out of the life boat. She reemerged from the house and said Get back! Get Back! Get back and paint that wall Jo Jo. So we kept waiting. I lay on my side, on the floor because it was cooler. At one point I saw a perfectly painted house, but alas, it was a mirage. Finally they came back out. They were done. Mommy went back to cleaning, and Daddy to holding furniture while she did, but they didn't work for long, the exhaustion monster had caught up with them.
So our house is now painted. No more men coming in and out. And no more trapped in our life boat. A little while ago the Queen Mother's Mommy picked her up and returned her home. She was warm and snugly and even though she took up too much room on the bed and Mommy's lap. So here are some picture of our rooms. I hope you like it. If not let Mommy know so she can yell at Jo-Jo "Get Back!"
Fab colors! Love them.
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