Two weeks ago, you were treated to an incredibly muddled tale of how it came to pass that I painted a bathroom. When I was a youngster, my mom loved to paint right up until the moment she was finished when one of us kids would accidentally gouge a sharp stick into the wall, ruining a one nanosecond-old paint job.
This story starts with a trip to France that led me to buy a broken French clock that morphed into my acquiring a fleur de lis lamp and the subsequent purchase of a towel rack that may or may not induce mass violence involving a guillotine. Taking down the old towel rack resulted in four large defects in the wall where we pried giant screw anchors out. We spackled and sanded these defects and it looked bad. Really bad. Steve said I promised to repaint the wall. I had no memory of this promise and did not feel especially beholden to it. Two years passed while Steve and I each tried to out-wait the other. I lost. I should have known I’d lose. This is the same man who cannot wait three minutes for ESPN’s Sports Center to come on, yet he was pleased, nay dare I say giddy, with the prospect of waiting till eternity to get out of this job. If you have a better memory than I, you will recall that at the end of my column two weeks ago, I urged you to retain it for referring to when part two was printed. That is now. Don’t’ say I didn’t warn you.
So here we are with a French-themed bathroom, the walls of which are in dire need of paint. I fully realize a French-themed bathroom sounds like something Martha Stewart would dream up if she were high on crack. But it really is quite charming. I would invite you all into my bathroom to take a look except we are on a septic system and, frankly, septic system technology is not all it should be.
I have allegedly promised to paint this bathroom which suggests strongly that I have gotten into Martha Stewart’s supply of crack. But an alleged promise is an alleged promise so I got to work. Painting, like many jobs, involves hours of preparation. Miles of blue edging tape went around the cabinets, up the shower, across the ceiling, and down the mirror. Drop cloths were dropped, paint was stirred, and I was out of excuses to delay. I found an old paintbrush in a drawer and climbed the ladder, at which point Steve pointed out that I was a moron if I thought you painted with a paint brush. Apparently, you paint with a roller which greatly increases the likelihood you will spatter paint everywhere except on the wall.
At this point I was saved by my friend who texted me about painting. She has been trying to get me to paint the bedrooms and was delighted I had broached the paint-application threshold. It is not too clear why she is so interested in the state of my wall coverings, but she is a good person and really a whiz at Words With Friends. After I read her text I told her she was going to figure large in this story but that I would not use her real name. The gist of her text was that when she painted her bathroom she did not want to get paint on her clothes. She reasoned that when you are in the bathroom you often do not have clothing on. Therefore, the obvious solution was to remove all her clothing to paint the bathroom which, in the room sensitivity department, was used to her being in there naked.
My bathroom is not quite so inured to nudity, so I kept my clothes on. The actual painting took about ninety minutes. Once the paint dried, Steve decided the four defects still looked awful and, I swear I am not making this up, proceed to re-sand the wall I had just painted. I used the last four drops of paint in the can to repaint these spots and then hid the sandpaper.
It does look nice and retains that nice toxic chemical paint smell which, in a bathroom, is not always a minus. Oh yes, and when I hung the pictures back up I gouged the wall.
Marla Boone writes for the Troy Daily News and Piqua Daily Call