“Watch out, Renoir. You’re dripping on my loveseat.”

Article 11, Section 2, intentionally vague subparagraph #432, entitles the leasee (yours truly) to a “clean, freshly-painted apartment” upon move in.  Clearly my eyes must have given out halfway through seemingly pointless and safely skim-able subparagraph #433, because I somehow missed a vital part of the fine print.  I, the sheltered little girl from the suburbs, assumed that my walls (and perhaps my ceilings) would receive this promised fresh coat of paint.

Ahh loopholes.

Apparently, lightswitches, wood floors, doorknobs, bathtubs, electrical outlet openings, and furniture are also, by definition, part of the term “apartment,” and are therefore not exempt from a fresh splattering of Benjamin Moore. Needless to say, when my roommate and I first keyed into our Spin Art nightmare, we dialed the building Super faster than you can turn on a lightswitch that has been painted in the “off” position. 

In the end, after a few harsh words in 2-3 different languages, the apartment was cleaned up. Be weary New Yorkers. I caught some footage of these painters working on their next project across town.  It seems like they have still not learned to use newspaper and painter’s tape:


One response to ““Watch out, Renoir. You’re dripping on my loveseat.”

  1. I think your sense of humor regarding your adventure will help me through this semester. Miss you, and hope to see you soon! Hope life in the city is treating you well!

    Your cousin!


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