Painting the Entire House, or the Art of Unavoidable Avoidance

If I was a good blogger, I would have taken some pictures of our house before we were painting it so that you could see the travesty that was our unpainted house. If I was a good tenant, I would have taken those photos so that should my landlords decide to raise the rent next year, I would have the ability to show them all the work we did which, technically, they are required by law to do (landlords must paint your apartment at least every 7 years by law... unless your boyfriend has some kind of weird, special relationship with them where he feels like any false move will land him on the street). But I'm not a good tenant (though the rent is always on time, and I've sufficiently brought the apartment out of college dorm squalor and into relationship squalor) and I'm not a good blogger (at least, not right now. Not while I'm on antibiotics, slightly depressed, painting a house, suffering from terrible allergies and trying to stay sane).

Our bathroom alone required a Hazmat team. The Doo claims that a previous roommate was fond of taking steamy, protracted showers with the windows and door shut. Because of this, our bathroom looked like a heroin addict's den (or so my little brother called it) - the walls were peeling, the wooden window frame in the shower was rotted (thumbs up, architect! wood does so well in water, ya know?) and the ceiling was an over-sized petri dish of bacteria and mold. And when I say mold, I need you to imagine that our ceiling looked like the backside of some great Dalmation, or like those gum-riddled NY subway platforms (that black stuff is gum, right?) or like a Jackson Pollack painting that kind of makes you feel sick. You pick whichever word picture works best for you.

Like this

Oh, and the door didn't work. Because the same aforementioned roommate happened to be a really big guy who sort of fumbled about and threw his weight around like a linebacker going for a tackle (I'm assuming linebacker's are the ones that tackle) and he busted the door open one day and literally ripped the wood out of the door frame. Or maybe there was an actual heroin addict shooting up in the bathroom and he had to break down the door to make a citizen's arrest. I don't really know; the stories tend to swirl in these parts. All I do know for sure is that I hear tell he took really, really long, hot showers and ate a lot of fried bologna. What a heartthrob, am I right ladies?

The point of all this is that no knitting has been done. None. I haven't looked at my needles once in a week. With allergies and antibiotics and the chaos of the house, I can barely keep my head up. Which is depressing, and so unlike the season. Everyone loves the spring; it's beautiful and warm and colorful and full of life. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say I hate it. I hate the spring. It makes me sick, makes my eyes water, and I have to sleep through most of it just to make it to the summer. So there you have it; the ultimate pessimist's confession.

But after four days of painting and moving things around, the painting is finally done. All of our stuff has scuttled to the center of one room like some cockroach horde in reverse (ew), but otherwise, it's done. Now it's simply time to reset and move everything back. The bathroom is a pale, sleepy lavender; our bedroom is the color of a baby's bottom (we refuse to describe it any other way), our dining room is a tangy tangerine, the kitchen is lemon sherbet, and my office/crafting room is an olive-y avocado. I promise to post some pictures as soon as I get home from work.
Oh, and I have some pretty craft ideas for that office/crafting room. Ideas involving this shape: