I now get angry watching HGTV.

Last week I put what I thought was the final coat of paint on the bathroom. (Apparently the person staying there doesn't do paint. Or mornings before eleven.) It was after several coats of primer, and I hoped and prayed that this would finally be it. When it was wet it didn't look perfect, but I figured it would dry and become more opaque.

Imagine my dismay when I arrived this morning and there was a very definite orange tinge to the walls. I almost started to cry. I couldn't imagine how may more coats it would take to finally wipe out the apparently nuclear orange color that the previous family had put on the walls just so that sixty years later I would have something to occupy my free time.

(Because sleep would be way too normal.)

I could envision myself painting a layer every Friday for the rest of my life and it would never not be orange. Finally the room would be so tiny that you could barely turn around, but it would STILL BE ORANGE. The thought was so disheartening I almost gave up and set fire to the damn place. What's orange now, bitch? MY FLAMES THAT'S WHAT.

But God took pity on me and worked a miracle- finally, this FOURTH coat of paint seemed to work. It looks white now, and hopefully, HOPEFULLY this will work.

After having a little freak-out in the bathroom I joined my mom in the bedroom, where she was going through piles of legal pad backing. (No. Don't ask. Because frankly, I could not explain.) She found a box of random quarters. "Look!" she said, "A box of random quarters!"

Never a dull moment.

Then the phone rang and I answered because I was bored and I found the idea of screwing with a telemarketer way more interesting than studying for my Ireland exam next week. So I told John from National Right-to-Life that I was Mrs. {Insert Family Name Here}, and we had a lovely long talk about right-to-life issues, and Sarah Palin (during which I covered the mouthpiece and expressed my actual views about Mrs. Palin), and orthopaedic surgery. All the while my mother was smirking politely at my sympathies ("You've been through this before, haven't you, Mrs. {Insert Family Name Here}?" "Oh, John. You have no idea."). Finally John got around to the real reason for the call, and asked for money. I made up some medical bills excuse, but my mom picks up the box and goes, "No! You could give him some quarters!"

Haha. Maybe I should have told John from National Right-to-Life that I could donate approximately $4.75 to his cause. After all, he did offer to pray for my "husband". ("Just needs some of God's healing, touch, right?" "Um...not exactly." Not unless we're dealing with Resurrection-of-the-Body healing touch here.)

Maybe it wouldn't have been so funny if I hadn't have been high on paint fumes because OH MY LORD THE PAINTING IT NEVER ENDS EVERYWHERE I TURN THERE'S ANOTHER COLOR.

Hell, I should have asked John to pray for my granddaughter Kathleen who is slowly going insane, courtesy of Killz Latex.