Y'all know that I'm not good at relationships. Give me a lady screaming into the phone because her house is on fire and I'll handle that just fine, but when my cell phone rings and the caller ID shows the name of a guy I liked way back in high school and haven't seen since, I'll panic and let it go to voicemail at least twice. And then I'll listen to the voicemail over and over and dissect it and ask my bestie things like, "Does his voice sound like he might be fat?" and "He said he can't wait to see me. Do you think he's gonna be a clinger?"
Y'all know I don't plan ahead very well. So when I bought a giant side-by-side Bosch refrigerator at an auction down the street from my house, I was pretty proud of myself for not only getting a great deal on it but also for measuring it before I bought it to make sure it would fit through both doorways and in the space in my kitchen. I just didn't consider how I'd get it out of the house down the street and into my house.
And then I devised a cunning plan. I texted that guy from high school and said, "What's up? Got your voicemail. Sorry I didn't call you back." And he texted right back, "Just hanging out with my son. What are you up to?" This was a good sign. "Oh, nothing," I texted, "just at an auction trying to figure out how to move a fridge I just bought." And the guy said, "Need some help?" I love it when people fall into a trap that I've cleverly (or not so much) laid for them.
So that's how a guy I haven't seen in almost thirty years ended up helping me roll a behemoth fridge down the sidewalk and into my house. The rolling-down-the-sidewalk was the easy part; the into-my-house was not. That ended up taking the combined efforts of the guy from high school (whose name is Greg), his 15-year-old son, a dude from the auctioneer's place, and a guy who lives next door to the house where the auction was held. And even after all of that, Greg still asked me out for supper the next night. And I went and we had a great time. And we've gone on three more dates since then. And I hope at some point I'll stop giggling at nothing and gnawing on my fingers, but I make no guarantees.
Greg thinks my house is really cool and the work I've done on it is impressive. That's the word he used, impressive. Actually, not to brag, but I think he said "seriously impressive". So when he offered to help me on the house, I took him up on it.
I discussed this offer with Mare and my bestie Amy a couple of days ago. Mare said, "If he's never worked on old houses before, you might want to kinda ease him into it."
Y'all know I'm not good at relationships. So I said, "Well, I was thinking that he could climb up on the roof at the front of the house and scrape the paint off the eaves." And Mare's eyes rolled so far back in his head that I thought he was having a seizure, but all he said was, "Welllllll...." Amy is far more blunt. She whacked me on the arm and said, "If you ever want to see that sweet man again, do not--I repeat, do not--ask him to do that. What is wrong with you?" Oh. Maybe that's not such a great idea after all.
So that's how a guy I've been seeing for only three weeks ended up helping me paint the front of the house gray. No scraping of paint at all. He carefully followed my directions (which I practiced with Amy beforehand) to not paint over the witness marks, which is why there's a yellow stripe at the top there. And he even said he'd be back to help me with the unmitigated disaster on the side of the house, which you can kinda see in the photo. If I don't run him off somehow before the end of painting season. Lordy.