blue tape special

There’s a piece up there, and down here, and over there. See that one on the mantel? Follow a line straight down from there and over about a foot and there’s another one. They’re everywhere - little blue strips of painter’s tape which, to me, say “problem here” or “this needs a touch-up”. Little pieces of tape that, by now, probably have the contractor thinking “would someone please hide that blue damn tape so I can finish up and get out of here.”

Mutual, I’m sure. ‘Cause the longer people are there working, the more dings and scrapes they’re making on my beautiful nacre woodwork- a fact that isn’t making momma happy. And when momma isn’t happy… out comes the blue tape. Are these dots of ceiling paint on the luscious wood floor of my lovely new dining room? Blue tape. Did someone plunk down their hammer and chip the trim on the windowsill in my hasn’t-even-been-cooked-in-yet beautiful kitchen? Blue tape. Surely you didn’t intend to leave that spot unpainted right at eye level as I’m coming down the stairs. Blue tape. Handle loose. Blue tape. Door on crooked. Blue tape. Maybe it would have been easier on all of us if, from day one, I’d hung a big picture of myself, arms crossed, fist clutching a roll of blue tape, with the caption, “DON’T MAKE ME USE THIS!”

Last night I went through with the blue tape yet again. They say this could be their last day. There’s a chance that when I come home today there will be no paint buckets, drop cloths, putty knives, or stained rags to be found. No Bills or Mikes or Dougs or Als to roam my halls, use my bathrooms, or be in my closets. The possibility exists that tomorrow we will awaken in a house devoid of blue tape. There is a God.