A Sticky Situation That Made Me Lose My Shit

It Even Scared Morgan Freeman

What a great idea, I thought. I’ve been fixing up my tiny house and have been having fun using vinyl wall art to add little splashes of inspirational sayings and pops of color. So, when I say this shiny contact paper on Amazon to create a faux backsplash for my cooking area, I envisioned more cuteness in my little nest. Plus, it was heat resistant and cleans up easily; the description read.

“Adheres well, but is removable and will not damage paint,” it said.

What a slam dunk! I ordered and eagerly awaited the Prime delivery van to bring me my new and glorious transformed kitchen area.

This is the part where, if Morgan Freeman were narrating this story, he would interject, what awaited Theresa was neither glorious nor transformational.

I knew I’d better wait until morning to begin after I was fully caffeinated, freshly exercised, and in a happy state of mind.

But I allowed myself to do the prep work. I measured things out-twice, per the adage, “measure twice, cut once.” This isn’t my first rodeo, so I was pleased with my patient calculations and resolve to tackle the project in the morning.

I set aside my tools: a Pampered Chef pastry scraper that would serve as my smoother to keep bubbles out when applying paper, a tape measure, an exacto knife for trimming around light switches, and of course scissors. Good prep is key to a job well done, right?

I went to bed almost giddy with the excitement of my forthcoming backsplash. My God! visitors would exclaim, as they saw my handiwork. How clever! This is Uh-Maze-Ing, they would say. How DID you do it?

Who’s a contact-paper-applying badass? I would smile to myself. It was nothing, I’d reply, humble bragging.

The fun started moments after unwrapping the roll. Emphasis on ROLL. I had underestimated the resistance of trying to get paper that was tightly rolled to lie flat.

¡No problemo! I recruited some bananas, my utensil caddy and an empty coffee mug to anchor it down as I unrolled it so I could cut it.

And that’s when the first cuss word popped out of my mouth. The paper was giving the empty mug the what for in trying to subdue its curliness. I added another mug. There, you SOB!

Now it was getting challenging to cut along the guidelines as I had to navigate between the bananas, caddy and now, two coffee mugs. I added the tape measure for a little extra weight. I’ll show this damn paper who’s boss.

Another cuss word popped from my lips as my scissors collided with the bananas and detoured from the straight line.

Breathe, Theresa, Breathe.

I took a swig of coffee. You got this.

I fixed my mistake and finished the cutting the needed length.

The little bastard rolled up even tighter than when it was on the roll.

Oh, we’re gonna do it the hard way. I sneered at it through gritted teeth. I’ll show you! This was getting personal.

Morgan Freeman: Theresa did not realize things were going to go from bad to worse. Much worse.

The bananas could no longer assist me in weighing the paper down as I was now ready to apply it to the freshly wiped down wall. Yessirree, I told myself. You got this, I murmured with less swagger.

I peeled back some of the backing and place it in the corner. So far, so good.

I take another deep breath. Rut roh. It was already going catty wampus. I realized I was missing the most important tool: a trained octopus.

This was a long roll of rebellion and it was refusing to submit to my guidance.

It didn’t help there was a stoopid non-functioning switch I had to work around. I knew this would be a challenge but I was ready with my exacto knife.

I cut a few little slits to accommodate the switch. Figuratively speaking, I poured a little gasoline on my smoldering annoyance. I thought about ripping the switch out from the wall but thought better when a vision of me electrocuting myself flashed through my head.

As the meme states, “And yet, she persisted.” Not sure it was applicable to this situation, but what the hell.

I haven’t even gotten a quarter of the wall covered and already there are crinkles, bumps, and the worst… it was uneven. Ever so slightly. But I could see it.

There is no way EVER that I could sit in my home knowing it was crooked. I would lie awake at night. Obsess over it at work. Have panic attacks. Need medication.

I peel it off. It’s removable, right? Easy repositioning, right?

Morgan Freeman: The wallpaper in fact, was NOT re-positionable, she would discover.

Deep breath. Swig of coffee.

The crinkle around the switch has grown worse. Past redemption even. Now I have contact paper turned abstract art with a river of crinkles running amok.

Why you little mofo, I scold the inanimate object, voice rising in pitch.

I tug at the paper and now it’s catching itself, sticky side to sticky side.

Seriously, you blankety-blank-blank…

I try another approach. I’ll plaster it up and me and Pampered Chef will get all the bumps smoothed out. The exacto knife can even up any uneven edge.

I smacked it up with a little more force than I intend and stand back to regard my work.

Bloody hell. It is accentuating every little bump that I didn’t realize was on the wall.

The cussing picks up speed. I contemplate a blowtorch and envision the fire department pulling up. Are there first responders for contact paper disasters?

Calm the hell down, Theresa.

I crank up Greta Van Fleet. He’s singing “Light My Love” and I’m changing the words to “Light My Wall” (on fire).

By now, I’ve got bits of this shit stuck in my hair and the workspace is littered with curls of paper backing. And where the hell are the scissors?

I’ve got a head of steam building and fling the bits of paper off the table. Ah! There they are.

You’d better calm down, girl, my good angel suggested. I told her to stuff it and go find me an octopus.

I know! I’ll start at the other end. I cut the long strip into smaller bits.

I am such a frickin’ genius.

I draw a deep, cleansing breath. In four counts, hold four counts, exhale four counts, repeat. I am a Zen master; I am.

I peel off more paper and apply to the other side and realize the wall isn’t square.

My Good Angel issues a warning: She’s gonna blow!

A mess on one side and a disaster in the works on the other side.

I furiously stroke the pastry scraper over the new mess. I’m not proud of what came out of my mouth. It was something like:

“!@#^%&#&#&@^(*&^^!!!!!!”

I wondered if there was a sailor thesaurus I could consult. I had run out of cuss words.

I somehow got the entire surface covered. I stand back and look.

“@#$&%*#(@($%^@^!!!!!”

It was uneven. I looked for the bananas. I was going to throw them at the wall. Every pimple, every slight imperfection on the wall, were now magnified by said paper.

THIS IS WAR. I’ll show you, you goddamn mofo.

Lacking a T-square, I figured I rip a canvas off the wall to MacGyver a straight edge. Damn the positive saying on it.

I shore it up and use the exacto to trim the edge. There. All better. Fixed it!

Then I stood back.

How in the hell did my straight edge become a sloping edge?

My rage is now fully unleashed.

It is a shiny disaster.

I cursed every wrong done to me in my 58 years on this planet. I cursed the doctor who pulled me from my mother’s womb, asshole drivers, and jeans that didn’t fit right. I screeched insults at every person who ever slighted me. Waved my fist at divorce and breast cancer. I yelled at my third-grade teacher and an asshole coworker I worked with during my 20s.

Nothing was too small or too big. It was all in my emotional bazooka’s crosshairs.

I kick through the curls of paper backing littering the floor and begin ripping off the ersatz backsplash, wadding it up into a ball of fury that is now sticking to my hands with vengeance.

Why you, !@#$%%**%(!!!!!

I grab another corner and rip it off.

Morgan Freeman is now cowering in a corner, horrified at the spectacle unfolding before his eyes.

Theresa discovers the paper is NOT safe for painted surfaces.

Another torrent of swear words as I look at the destroyed paint finish that now resembles a lunar surface.

The shiny backsplash is a big wadded ball of stickiness that I have trouble releasing from my hands so I can throw it in the trash.

My god, it’s a metaphor for your life, I reflect.

I stare at the crumbled backsplash spilling out of the bin.

And then… a giggle… and then… another giggle…

The absurdity of the situation tickles my funny bone and now I am laughing.

Little Miss Zen, eh?

My eye falls on a water filter waiting to be hooked up underneath the sink. I have grown tired of refilling gallon jugs, so I thought I’d just get a filter.

“Installs in just 10 minutes!” the description reads on Amazon.

Maybe I’ll tackle that next. Theresa, the optimist, speaks up.

Or maybe not, Theresa, the realist, says.

I stuff it under the sink so it’s out of sight. And I reach for the phone to call my handyman.

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