I have an overly sensitive painter.  My front room has 26' ceilings.  When we first looked at the house I thought, "wow, I love it!" but after about 2 months I thought, "wow, I live in an industrial building".  The only solution to bring down some of the height was to paint.  The paint needed to be a darker color,  to warm up my industrial sized ceiling height, so I chose a really cool light mocha latte sort of color.  I started the paint job with great intentions.  It was exhausting, and I was on day three.  Jon came home from work one day to see me teetering on our household 16' ladder shoved up against the wall trying to "cut in" the ceiling.  He freaked and suggested me in a body cast for the holidays would screw up everyone's holiday cheer, so how about we hire out the rest of the paint job?  The "rest" of the paint job meant about the top 2' up to the needed to be finished.  I called a couple of painters, they came to the house, saw my shame (for a professional painter to see a completed painted room minus the top 2' has to be something of a "share with the other painters nudge nudge" about the stupid housewife that got vertigo 24' up and had to stop painting) at not being able to finish the painting, and complemented me on my "efforts".  I settled on a painter, who seemed nice enough, and he could get in to do the job in a couple of days versus weeks.  HIRED!
So, said painter comes to the house, tells me (from the original bid) he would be here about 4 hours.  He started to get to work, and I scuttled around the house with Caden trying to just stay out of his way.  We made small talk here and there, and he kept telling me what a "professional" he was, and an "artist".  I could really care less, I just wanted the room to be finished so I could put everything back in order in the front room.  He finished his work, I inspected, and from all accounts it looked good.  I saw some "off" sports, but figured when it dried it would look okay.  I paid him, he left, the paint dried.  The "off"" spots dried ... and the afternoon light came in the 20' tall windows ... um, crap, it looked like hell.  Jon came home, he agreed, it looked bad.  My friends came into the house, friend one then friend two, both agreed, "unacceptable," they said, "he needs to come back!"  Now, in a neighborhood such as mine where we can literally shake hands out the kitchen window and every 5th house is the same floorplan as yours, we're a tight knit group, and ONE bad report, of ONE bad handyman job (paint, plumbing, etc) could pretty much destroy a contractor.  In other words, word spreads fast. 
I waited until after the holidays to contact my painter. We were leaving town, I figured I would be charitable, it was the holidays.  BUT, January 2, I called the painter.  The new year had arrived, we were home from Christmas vacation, and it was time to address the crap of a paint job.  I never expected what I heard ... I stated the facts, very matter of factly, and asked when he would like to come view/fix said paint job.  His response?  A 45 minute (not kidding, really, it was that long and why I stayed on the phone who even knows?) soliloquy about his "feelings" how they were "hurt" how he was "sensitive" and "artist" a "professional" and "hurt at my friends comments" and again back to his "feelings" and somewhere in there alot of excuses and phrases like, "well I didn't understand you wanted a good job, I thought you jsut wanted it done?"  What in the hell was wrong with this wacko?  Was he from Boulder?  Had he fallen prey to the now "legalization" of the wacky tabaccky and had contracted a case of "potophobia"?  I listened, truly I did, then I said, "are you finished?"  He quietly said, "yes." Then I responded to his "feelings", (I could care less), and his idiot comment about me not wanting a good job, and then threw in some business talk about how he quoted the job, he should have quoted better if he thought it would take more time, etc.  Somewhere along that conversation I was frequently interrupted for more talk about his "feelings".  I was firmly convinced he had "potophobia" at this point, and broke it down for him in terms a rheese monkey could understand.  "Look, " I said, "let me bottom line this for you ... you have 2 choices.  You can come to the house and look at the job you did while my husband is here so we can all chat, see the problems, and fix it sooner than later, or of that doesn't work for you I take you to small claims court."  Silence ... then the sound of a "click".  That damned fool had hung up on me.  Me.  The me who was the one person in the world you didn't want to piss off ... especially about her house.   I took a deep breath, looked at Jon, said, "he hung up on me."  Jon's eyes grew as big as saucers because he knew me.  He knew I would hunt down this silly fool bitch slap him from here to kingdom come.  In these instances, Jon takes to silent mode.  After 15 years of marriage, he knows.  Silence is best.  I took a deep breath and for a moment gathered every ounce of female southern gentility that I am firmly convinced courses through my genetic code so that I could handle this situation, "like a lady" as my very southern Grandmother would say.  I waited 3 minutes, then I redialed.  The phone rang, many, many times, then suddenly, he answered.  "Hello."  I think he had been crying, I'm sure it was his "feelings".  I greeted him with, "oh, hello, I'm so sorry, we must have had a bad connection, are you in a tunnel on your cell phone?"  Silence.  "I hung up on you about the time you threatened to take me to small claims court."  Hmmmm.  Response?  "Threatened?  Oh no, I don't make threats, that's a promise."  Silence.  Then, OH THEN, another 30 minutes about his "feelings" alot of excuses, more potophobic behaviors, and finally I handed the phone to Jon without a word to the sensitive painter.  I had nothing left.  "Jon, I said, "I can't take it anymore, you have to listen to this fool, please, take over."  Jon took the phone.  "Hello, uh, hello, this is Jon, yeah, Cortney had to go."  Then Jon was silent ... silent .... silent ... listening ... listening ... yes, the sensitive painter was now regailing Jon with his "feelings".  Jon, by the grace of God, managed to talk the guy off the ledge 30 minutes later (not kidding, we had now been on the phone with this fool for well over 2 hours) and convinced him to come to the house, see the paint job, and we could go from there.  Hallelujiah. 
The painter was to arrive in 2 days ... the next day I get a phone call.  It's the painter.  "Um, Cortney, I thought about our conversation, and I really don't feel good about it.  I feel like your husband is going to bully me when I come to your house to look at the paint job."  I almost broke into instantaneous laughter thinking this man obviously didn't know my "gentle giant" of a husband who I had never known in 16 years of knowing him a person that DIDN'T like him!  So, I heard more about his feelings, and now they were feelings of fear, trepidation, and the thoughts of my bully husband taking him behind the woodshed to beat the hell out of him.  If anything, I would be beating the hell out of him and Jon would have to restrain me from killing the sensitive painter.  I listened, again, and explained that Jon was not a bully, he was a professional and he was an executive, but he was also very fair, and VERY kind.  I listened, again, about more "feelings", and gave the phone to Jon, again.  Jon managed to convince the sensitive painter he would not bully him and the painter arrived the next morning.  At this point, I was convinced I was dealing with someone out of their rational mind and I don't deal in stupid, so it was better for me to be silent.  All of the niceties of introduction  were out of the way, Jon didn't "wacah" or "show his feathers" or try and hump the painter to establish dominance (this is what our Shitzu does to other dogs, cats, rodents, any gender, he just wants to be pack leader, we understand our Shitzu and accept him for who he is, don't judge) and the painter looked around and said, outloud, "wow, this is not nearly as bad as you two made it sound."  I gathered all restraint to not beat the hell out of him.  Jon broke into "professional" mode and starting getting very diplomatic politely telling the painter he and his painting job were both full of shit.  I was quiet, very quiet, in fact, I think I leared at the painter.  My sister Maranda says I lear at people I think are stupid.  She has accused me of this since we were teenagers, and sometimes in public when I would unknowingly lear she would nudge me and say, "stop it!" She still nudges me, so I guess I still lear.  So, I was learing, big deal.  It was either lear or kill and I voted the first so I could raise my children in our home rather than behind the bars of a federal penitentry.  Then, out of nowhere, the painter looks my direction, and throws both of his arms over his head and starts waving them to and fro and says, "yoohoo, Cortney, are you there?"  Yep, lost it.  "Oh yes, I'm here, and you need to look at your job and rethink your profession!"  I then proceeded to point out, "here, and here, and look here, I mean that is just ridiculous and what the hell were you thinking" at a random 500 mph pace. Then I regrouped, shifted focus, and looked at Jon, took a breath, and Jon cut in and I went back to learing.  The painter quietly asked Jon how much paint was left and looked at me.  "1/2 gallon," I said.  He then asked if I could go get the paint so he could see how much was there and how much more he would need to fix the paint job.  I started to walk down the hall to the garage and Captain Sensitive Painter/Professional Potophobic started to tell Jon he was sorry I was being unreasonable.  Jon, my dear Jon, who would not hurt a fly, and loses sleep for days when he has to fire a contractor, flew into Sir Gallahad mode and protected my honor very professionally telling the sensitive painter that his job was bad, he needed to fix it, and I was NOT unreasonable, but this job was crap.  I came back with the paint, having heard the whole conversation, and I leared as I handed him the paint.  The sensitive painter knew he had been beat, and hung his head in shame and said he would need one more gallon and he would finish the job ... then he looked at Jon for some sort of final plea that Jon would pay him more money and Jon said, "yeah, for free ..." and the sensitive painter caved.  Sensitive painter has not been back, he is coming next weekend when Jon is home.  I simply can't be alone with sensitive painter.  I have carpools to run and I can't do that if I have a prison ankle bracelet preventing me from leaving the premises for felony assault charges against said sensitive painter.  More to come on sensitive painter ... I have a feeling I might hear more about his feelings.  I don't know, just a "feeling".  Note to self.  If you can't paint the whole room, don't even get started.  If you have to hire a painter, hire a nationally recognized company, not someone you find on Craigs list.  I'm learing.

Benglish?

I need a translator for Benglish.  What is "Benglish" you may ask? Benglish is the term we use at our house for toddler speak.  It's that awkward time when your toddler is jsut starting to put words into sentences and major frustration follows when you can't understand what they are saying ... although they repeat the same unitelligible phrase about 14 times.  Caden is a Benglish expert, and you would think with him being my third, I also would have mastered Benglish ... to no avail.  My eldest two would attempt Benglish, and finally give up on me after about three repeats of the sentence KNOWING I had no clue and would get not clue in the near future so they just walked away.  Caden ... oh no.  Caden is obstinate and determined.  His Benglish is perfect, in his world, and my interpretation skills flawed, again, in his world.  Caden will say a sentence ... calmly the first two times.  The third time his tone will be come one of "you're an idiot if you can't understand what I'm telling you."  By about the tenth attempt of saying the EXACT same unintelligble sentence to me he is screaming, saying it slowly (like a bad American tourist in a foreign nation that assumes speaking slow, LOUD, english will somehow start to make sense to the poor natives of the country) and his little face is red and his fists clenched.  Sometimes, when he is very determined, he will drop to the ground, crawl in circles, and have to regroup, then speak to me a little slower, and with complete intensity, staring me in the eyes, speaking his best Benglish, and both of us hoping we understand.  To this day I have mastered the following, "Peds" means "I want to watch/play with my Wonder Pets", "fini, tubb" means, "I'm done with dinner, let's have my tub now, "Wubz" means he watch to watch "Wow, Wow, Wubzzy", brudder is "brother" and "daddy wok" means Dad's at work.  I think I should write a Benglish dicitionary for other nom Benglish speakers?

Words to live by ...

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automaticwally liberates others.


- Nelson Mandela