Wall Paper. Ugh

I hesitate to share this, but my wife and I are reading a “relationship” book called Conscious Loving.

As a rule, I’m far too manly to even admit there are relationship skills, much less commit to work on them. Like most men, I just grunt when something needs to be communicated. We’re about 2/3 of the way through through the book now and just about ready to start the exercises to become a better “co-committed” couple. I’m not positive the concept works because as we read it aloud to each other, each of us is quick to point out the flaws in the other when it’s the topic of the text. I’m finding myself using terms like “projection” and “redefining” and frankly, it bothers me. One of the topics describes the universal human tragedy of how when you’re feeling really good you do something to spoil the mood. For example, this cake is delicious (that’s the feel good part), it’s going to make my ass huge (spoil the mood part). The authors of the book call the condition an “upper limits threshold”.

It boils down to this: we must have both been at our “upper limits” threshold because we started to wall paper a room… together. Well that’s not entirely accurate; we were in the same room while I was wall-papering. Alana was painting the trim and the windows.

As I age, I get more and more methodical. I have learned the hard way that it’s way faster to take the time to be prepared. I measured out 19 inches from the corner. I ran a level line around the room 6 inches or so below the ceiling so I could be certain that the paper stayed plumb and that the pattern would line up when I got around. I set up a table and the water tray and I pre-cut all the full length pieces for the entire room. I had a squeegee, a bucket of water, a wall paper brush and sharp razor blades all ready to go. I was ready. I was prepared. I did the math.

The first two strips went up without event but the third strip was more challenging because it went around an outside corner and across a valance. Before I could stop myself, I asked her opinion. What I didn’t really ask for was help. Now, here she was, in my area and she was asking me why I didn’t have a sponge while relaying her vast papering experience that included being taught that one never runs the sponge or squeegee up and down, only across. No exceptions. Ever.

At least that’s what I think she said because whenever she gives me advice, my brain has a deficiency that changes the English language into the language that Charlie Brown’s teacher uses. Buhwaa, waaa waah. I try to take clues from her facial expressions to interpolate what she’s trying to communicate because, Lord knows, I can’t understand a word of what she’s saying.

In Alana’s defense, she’s frequently right about stuff like this but I still bristle every time she tries to educate me. Outwardly, I blame her delivery method. I maintain that she lacks diplomacy. Deep down though, I’m pretty sure that I just hate being told how to do something, especially by her.

I have no plans for self improvement regarding this issue.

Finally, I was educated and ready to proceed. To my dismay, I realized that the next strip required two people, working as a team, communicating and anticipating the other’s needs. The strip had to be cut because there is an electrical panel and a doorway in this particular section of wall. I’ll spare the details but we went through half of the expendable excess we’d figured for the job and the final result was Alana informing me the final attempt didn’t look any better than the second attempt. We’re going to hang a painting over the panel anyway.

Now, the room is papered and the window trim is mostly painted. Baseboards original to the home have been stripped and fitted and are waiting for a coat of primer.

The floor still needs to be grained and I think we’ve finally settled on the proper color for a base coat.