It started in the corner of my eye, a slight curling at the edge of our gorgeous linen-ish wallpaper. I blinked it away. The next morning, I was quite literally powdering my nose when I glanced below the mirror and saw the wallpaper seam for the first time. Coming unglued, it was suddenly visible, like a meek housewife who turns into a banshee.
The stages of admitting a household maintenance problem run a trivial parallel to the stages of grief. I started by denying the very possibility of curl: We do not shower in this bathroom. There is no steam. The wallpaper only went up a year ago.
You can only say these things out loud to a wall for so long. You wear yourself out, and you are forced to admit that regardless of probability, its cover is, indeed, buckling.
The second stage is rage: That nice painter must have put it up wrong.
So what? It's buckling.
The third stage is panic. My husband won't even find this a problem worth solving. He will squint at the wall, nod knowledgeably, and proceed to ignore it for the next five years. I, on the other hand, will see the gap widen every time I disturb the air by walking into the room.
But what am I supposed to do? I know nothing about wallpaper. I'm certainly not about to start over with different wallpaper.
And so I do what I've learned to do in any moment of helplessness: I consult the Internet. And the first entry I find rescues me as gently as one of those handy husbands women fantasize about when they're over 40 and could care less about more obvious attributes.
I print out the instructions and read them a second time.
In the basement, I find a tiny plastic thing that looks like a picnic trowel. I use it to jam wallpaper paste under the seams. I obediently sponge off the excess and press down the edge. I make sure it's dry, and then I cover it with blue painters' tape.
I wait a week instead of a day, mainly because I'm afraid to pull it off and find my work ineffectual.
Gingerly, I unpeel the tape.
The edges are flat, the seam has vanished, the wallpaper is perfect again. In all four problem spots.
I don't have to nag my husband. I don't have to pay anybody. I don't have to fall all over myself thanking the digital handyman.
I don't even have to admit I had help.
--Jeannette Cooperman, staff writer
