Once again I find myself in the middle of a project. This time in the process of, school starting, trying to get a home business up and running, plus involvement in a friend’s divorce, I decide to do some home decorating and re-arranging.

I decide to switch and redo my son’s room. It had awhile since I undertook anything of this magnitude. Why didn’t somebody tell me to wait, reconsider, sell or leave town? Any of the above would have been better!

First of all, I should probably say up front that blondes have their own system of doing things and usually it does not match the rest of the world’s ideas. They can’t seem to see how they’re doing it wrong. I do try my best to tell them, but they don’t get it.

Now that we’ve cleared up who’s right and who’s wrong, I can begin my tale of butt- aching physical labor. Number one, I’m not into physical labor unless it involves a member of the opposite sex. But that’s just another story!

First I had to clear out all the stuff from a room that belonged to my oldest son when he lived at home. Then I had to paint it. That’s always a party when I’m involved. What was supposed to be aqua-blue turned to the color of crème-de-menthe.

I know when cutting in the edges, the idea is to not get any on the ceiling. The likelihood of me accomplishing that is zip. So is the avoiding green hair after the painting is done.

Since Halloween is not here, it would seem a little out of the ordinary if I had my hair streaked with green permanently. It was purple permanently once until my first child was born, due to hair color that didn’t like my change in hormone’s.

The first night, rolling aggressively attacked the first large wall. I accomplished a lot, which was good, because by the second night I felt like I’d been attacked aggressively! My arm’s, and my back hurt. Even my hair hurt! I felt butt muscles I didn’t think at forty years old, were still there.

I bent to pick up brushes and my favorite shorts became the color of crème-de- menthe. I also did something I’d never done before. I had a hole in one of the walls about ten inches across. I don’t need a man to help me, I thought, “I can do it myself.”

So I cut some sheetrock, stuck it in the hole, and proceeded to putty it in place. I found out they have professionals that get paid to do this stuff.

This stuff is very sticky. I was almost through painting when I slipped forward. Yep, straight into the wall! Boob first one side into fresh sticky putty, and the other side only with nose firmly in green paint. Can you visualize that? If you can’t, I have a son who has pictures! Men for hire is starting to look real good.
I’m in the middle of a dilemma and there’s nobody but my son in the room. I’m in this most uncomfortable position and trying to get relief from my quandary. How to get myself unstuck? I’m not blonde putty! If I wanted to get myself stuck to something it wouldn’t be a wall. It’d be a …. Never mind! I don’t think I’m allowed to go there in a family column.

My son finally says, “Hey Mom, you got something green on your nose and it ain’t a booger.” He seems to find this amusing. A true comedian! Wonder who’s genes he has? By this time my back has begun to feel like a pretzel and I don’t find it funny. I can’t ask his help to get me unstuck because of the body part that is involved.

I can’t put an ad in the paper because I’d have a house full of rednecks. I can just see the results, Wanted: Someone to get blonde’s boob unstuck from wall, this translates in Mississippi into free-boob feeling contest. I’d once again be making the headlines and not getting paid for it.

So I do what any other blonde would do I tell my son to dial a friend. I feel like Regis Philbin on the “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire Game.” My friend answers. I put her on speakerphone so I can explain my dilemma and ask the stupid question of the day.

“Help! How do I get myself unstuck from this wall?“

“Honey, did someone not tell you it’s not like super glue and you’re not really stuck to the wall. You’re just sticky.”

I think she’s laughing in the background but I can’t tell for sure. It’s a hell of a lot easier being born a brunette that is all I’ve got to say! People should make allowances. As blondes we should get special awards for making it to forty and alive.

“You mean I can just get up?” I say indignantly.

“Yes, dear.” she said.

I get up, untwist my body, and thank my friend. She’s now gone straight from snickering to belly laughs. That’s okay! One day she’ll need me for something. Where will I be? Probably stuck to a wall!

I’m not even going to end this another-day in-the-life-of-a-blonde thing by trying to explain just how dumb I felt the day I became blonde putty. If I want to make myself feel better, I just make fun of the cat. She’s had a green tail ever since I commenced painting. Do you think there’s such thing as a blonde cat?