Delusions of craftiness.

Delusions of craftiness.

I'm quickly realizing I have a problem.

I get these impulse ideas. Say, for example, at 5pm on a Wednesday night, that maybe we could paint the guest room by end of day Thursday so it'd be dry and odor-free and ready for guests on Friday. Part of the problem is that I actually follow through on the impulses.

The only paint store in town that sells colored Safecoat paint closed long before I had the idea. We picked up primer from Environgentle, and some extra painting supplies from The Despot, and successfully primed the rooms and our faces and forearms by 11pm. Thursday morning, I was up at the ass crack of dawn, and picked up the degas bleu paint. Last night, we finished painting the room a very pretty, soft pale blue. It looks great!

However, the bigger part of my problem is that, in addition to having impulse ideas and following through on them, at heart, I'm possibly the laziest perfectionist you'll ever meet. A lazy perfectionist with lots of project ideas is a scary prospect. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my husband (who is even more of a perfectionist than I am, but he's far from lazy so he actually does things like line up the fucking blue tape carefully around all edges and trim, not just wish the paintbrush would automatically go in a straight line and, when the painting is finished, be twitchy and upset about the amateur edges for the rest of your time spent in the room). He also does things like clean up the drop cloths, put the ladders away, reattach switch plates, and whatever else needs to be done to hide all evidence of my Rashy Conceived Home Improvement And/Or Craft Project.

I think part of this neurosis spills over into my love-hate relationship with fresh flowers. I will go through phases where I absolutely have to have fresh flowers around the house. I'll spend forever clipping the stems just so and pulling off just the right amount of greenery. Then, the neglected clipped ends and extra leaves will sit near the sink until someone else cleans it up, and the flowers will inevitably die in their vases. A few weeks/months later, I'll finally get around to carefully extracting the slimy, moldy floral carcasses from the permanently marred vases. All the while, lamenting the whole process and plotting my next floral display. At least flowers don't have too many costs associated therein.

And please, please don't bring up the Great Ill-Fated Quilting Project of '01.

I think I need a personal staff. Otherwise Erik will soon see the light and leave me for a normal wife.