Story 2: Never Again

One would think that someone who has watched as much Discovery Channel and HGTV/TLC programs like Trading Spaces, and This Old House would have had enough exposure to home improvement techniques and and basic fix-it knowledge to not make a fool of themselves at the local Home Depot.

Picture it. VA, 2005. A young man in his condo can no longer tolerate parking his car in his single car garage with blotchy drywall spots spread throughout. Six months of parking in the unfinished surroundings and he becomes motivated to paint the walls and ceiling of the garage in a plain white. His parents are shocked that he does not just hire out to have it professionally done as they have, four weeks prior.

One Friday evening, the young man ventures to the local Home Depot and buys a "Paint-Mate" and a large tin of white paint. "Paint-Mate," a contraption of the devil, markets itself as a tool to aid in the painting of your ceiling and walls by sucking the paint into its handle/tube and evenly spreading it out through the attached roller. Truthfully, being the novice I am, I thought the product was logical and the mechanics made sense. When more paint ended up on my floor than on the walls and ceiling, I began to question the logic. Although it did put an amount of paint on the wall, the huge amount of effort for an even layer of paint was taxing on my reserves. I quickly fatigued of the stupid extra-long roller and decided to go back to the store.

On Saturday, my second can of paint and a basic roller and tin proved to work efficiently enough, especially with the greatest hits of Stevie Wonder playing on the stereo in the background. Three bottles of Yeungling later and most of two walls and half the ceiling enveloped in cloudy white, I stopped. I cleaned myself off and went out for the evening with a friend.

I returned to find the blotchy walls still shining through the layer of paint like ghosts on a Civil War battlefield. Albeit appropriate for a Civil War battlefield, ghosts do not belong in my garage. And my friend, returning with me to get in his car to go home, inquires if I "primed" it.

Primed? Primed, you say? Oy.

So, Sunday. I venture to Home Depot, the third time that weekend, in the morning. I ask the sales associate to give me primer. I take it home, and what did I find? I've been given another can of paint. Perhaps I was still delirous from having to close the garage to paint the ceiling directly above. Perhaps I was inhaling too many fumes and the sauna created by my closing the garage door had dehydrated me. Whatever it was, I knew I didn't need any more paint. I needed primer. So I took the can back to the Home Depot and told the customer service desk that I needed to exchange the paint for primer.

"This is primer, dude" says the young man behind the counter. I retorted, "No, open it up, it's paint. I wanted primer."


Lesson 1: I hate fuckin' painting.
Lesson 2: Primer looks just like fuckin' paint.
Lesson 3: And, I hate being called "dude," especially when I feel like a fool.

So, since then, I have been shopping at Lowe's. They have healthier plants and a better selection anyway.

And, most importantly, the kid at the customer service desk doesn't know me yet.