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August 16, 2013 / MissSteele

Spew More Sweet Lies to Me, Movies!

I once read somewhere that the movie industry does so well because it allows people to enter an alternate reality for a while and escape from their stressful/boring/hectic/shitty lives for a bit. And I believe it.

In fact, I have one friend who absolutely refuses to watch a movie unless it has a happy ending. You know those movies where the guy and girl don’t actually end up together? Or the movie where the protagonist dies? Or the one where the kid has to shoot his own dog? She flat-out refuses to give them a moment of her time. I tried to argue with her once, trying to defend these great movies by telling her the endings were more “realistic.” To this, her response was, “Do not misunderstand me. I do not watch movies because I like to be reminded of reality.” Good point.

See, the movies give us false hope and make our real-lives look like a big bag of shit. The movies make everything look adorable and exciting. Even the smallest chore, like washing a Golden Retriever, is hella fun. In the movies, you sit the dog in the washbasin and hose him down as bubbles fly around and he licks your smiling face as you giggle with delight. In real life, you struggle to get the massive beast into the washbasin, but not before you trip and fall into it yourself. You then attempt to hold him down, all the while trying to squeeze shampoo into your fur-caked hands as the dog wriggles free from your death grip. The brute then begins running towards the neighbor’s child as you chase him with the rubber hose, flinging water around like you are Leatherface with a chainsaw screaming, “Get back here you little fucker!” The neighbor then comes outside, horrified that you are speaking to their child that way, and hurriedly ushers the kid off the swing set and gawks at you until they reach the porch.

The movie version is much nicer. It almost always is.

Just to be clear, that is a paint brush. Not a rocket-ship penis.

Just to be clear, that is a paint brush, not a rocket-ship penis.

Take for example this lovely little tale of my husband and I painting our first house. Sounds delightful, right? We were so excited to have a place of our own, our own little piece of heaven. We ran right down to Home Depot and picked out some paint together. We didn’t argue once about the shade and were in perfect agreement. We were smart and prepared (because we are homeowners, duh!)  and we bought everything else we needed right then and there. Brushes, rollers, drop clothes, you name it.

We then went home to our empty house with no television or furniture and cheerfully began painting. I threw on one of his old button downs and put on some sexy music. It was just like a little party. Picture a well-edited montage of us chasing each other around with wet paintbrushes and dancing to Nora Jones. He then scooped me up, kissed me on my paint-covered face, and we giggled like a bunch of silly schoolgirls as we jumped up and down on the single mattress lying on the living room. Then, we totally made out because painting makes people way horny. This is not all gross because even though I had been painting all day, I still looked as though l was freshly showered. My hair was perfect, as was my make-up, and I smelt like a daisy. We then laid on the mattress, embracing each other, as we stared at the freshly painted walls and admired our hard work.

Oh, I’m sorry. I should have prefaced that was the movie version. This is what actually happened:

We argued for two days over whether or not the walls actually needed to be painted. We begrudgingly headed over to Home Depot where we attempted to pick out some paint together. I am incredibly indecisive and have determined that if someone held a gun to my head and told me to pick a shade of red for the kitchen, I would have died with paint samples in my hand. To try and narrow down my decision, I proceeded to hold up the paint samples to my husband who was less than thrilled to have been in Home Depot for an hour without any sort of progress on purchasing a gallon of paint.

“Heirloom Red or Cranberry Day Parade Red?” I asked as I held up the samples.

“They look the same. Just pick one,” my loving, but frustrated husband replied.

“Ok. I pick Heirloom Red,” I said with hesitation.

“Ok, great! Let’s go get it!” he said as he tried to drag me away from the wall of paint samples.

“But…but what if it doesn’t look good? What if it is too loud?” I asked as I practically dug my heels into the floor as he tried to pull me towards the counter.

“Nope, it’ll be perfect. It’ll look great!” he convincingly told me as he hauled me towards the paint counter with a tenacious look on his face, his eyes wild with the thought of the freedom that awaited him in the parking lot.

“Ooooh, what about this one? This one looks nice. It’s Washington Apple Red,” I said as I snatched up another sample.

My husband then gave up his will to live, slouched over and let out a sigh.

This prompted me to begin fighting with him in the middle of Home Depot by yelling gems like, I’m sorry for trying to make our home beautiful!  and I guess you don’t care if it looks shitty, so I’ll just pick one!

 After we publicly humiliated each other, we grabbed the items we foolishly assumed would be all we would need and made our way to the cash register where we paid well over $200.00 in items neither one of us really wanted to buy. This only added to my husband’s excitement.

Fast-forward a bit, and the painting has commenced. We were grossly unprepared and kept having to make trips back to Home Depot to get more items and pay even more money. We were irritated and exhausted. We were also not even close to being done.

With every stroke of the paintbrush, my husband complained, “I hate painting. Next time, we will hire a painter. I don’t care how much it costs!” The more he complained, the more my intense desire to assault him with a paint scraper grew. I needed something else to listen to, but we didn’t have many options. We had no television yet and our phones were nearly dead, so we plugged in a dusty radio from 1984 that could only pick up one station, and that station played only static sprinkled with a touch of gospel music. So, instead of frolicking around to The Rolling Stones, we were sloppily dragging our asses to jaunty Jesus tunes.

 We were miserable.

 I did not look cute, mind you. I was not wearing an adorable button-down and shorts. I was wearing a t-shirt I had found crumpled in the bottom of my dresser that had a moose sitting in a rocking chair with a shot-gun in its lap that read: Y’all come back now, ya’ hear! I had never seen this shirt before and judging from the stains all over it, I was fairly certain my mother used it as a dust rag. Also, I had somehow managed to get paint in my sweaty-ass hair, my face looked like it had been beaten with a wire brush, and I smelt like a goat. I was the epitome of sexy.

This is a bold-face lie.

This is a bold-face lie.

 By the end of the day, we were ready to kill each other. After several exhausting hours of lack-luster painting and bitching, I noticed he got paint on my prized University Alumni t-shirt. Maybe it was all the fumes I had inhaled that day, or maybe it was the fact that I looked like an extra from Honey Boo Boo and was feeling extra redneck that day, but I nearly flew at him.

As it turns out, I may have overreacted just a tad because next thing I remember, he was throwing clothes in a bag to go to his parent’s house, and I was calling a divorce lawyer. As you may notice, this is far from the sexy party on the mattress in the previous version.

Not to worry, all was well. After the crying and screaming subsided, we reconciled and decided to admire our hard work. After all, this project had us screaming at each other like we were auditioning for a spot on the Jerry Springer show. We were certain it would be worth it and look fabulous.

It wasn’t. It wasn’t fabulous.  The kitchen looked like an inbred chimp splashed the walls with blood.

So I suppose it is with good reason the movies always seem to exaggerate the magical moments of life. After all, who wants to see a paint-covered goat-woman black out and choke her husband over a t-shirt?

I’m just kidding.

 I didn’t black out.



Leave a Comment
  1. snoogiefisk / Aug 20 2013 6:00 pm

    Hi! I’ve enjoyed your blog and have decided to nominate you for a Liebster Award.
    Here is your nomination:

  2. MissSteele / Feb 18 2014 2:42 pm

    Reblogged this on My Amusing Dispositions.

  3. Sean Smithson / Feb 18 2014 5:40 pm

    Story makes a lot more sense now that it’s not cut off!

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