I had a day that was free of responsibilities. I was actually complaining about being bored and wondering how I was going to fill my day when my husband called from work. He suggested I could go out to the milkhouse and open all of those old cans of paint that we needed to get rid of to continue with a renovation out there. Once opened, I could fill them with the kitty litter he’d already purchased so the paint could be absorbed and we could dispose of them properly, like the responsible citizens that we are.
That sounded like a reasonable plan to me, so I headed outside and performed the task. I found three small cans that had never been opened previous to my invasion, and remembered that he had bought these for touch up in the downstairs bathroom. I tapped the lids back into place lightly, cleaned up outside, gathered my tools and the extra cans and headed back indoors.
We store paint and painting tools in a cabinet in the downstairs bathroom. I’d planned on setting the cans down on the counter and going to get a hammer to tap the lids into place when it happened.
I was just near the threshold of the bathroom when the top can of paint fell. The can of hi-gloss enamel. The black hi-gloss enamel. Upside down. Onto both the new laminate kitchen floor and the black and white tiles of the bathroom floor.
The epithets flew and kept flying. They never stopped while I lunged for the roll of paper towels on the counter. I began sopping up paint and tried to stuff the saturated paper towels into the paint can. I could tell, very quickly, that the can wasn’t going to hold many of these saturated towels, so I zipped to the other side of the kitchen and got the tall garbage can. On my trip back to the doorway, I realized I’d tracked black paint all over the new floor.
I sopped and mopped, scrubbed and scoured. All I could picture was my husband, who is The Master Of All Clean Floors And Floor Cleaning Implements, coming home to see the mess I’d created. More flying epithets. Imagine a biker blushing at what was coming out of my mouth, multiply it by three, and you’ll almost be able to hear what I said. It was like I channeled Joe Pesci.
Time seemed to stand still as I kept the paint-covered areas wet with spray cleaning aids while scrubbing other areas with a brush. I kept turning in maniacal circles, looking for places that I’d missed or tracked it onto. Sweat was spouting from every pore. I had black, hi-gloss enamel on both arms, up to the elbows. My mascara had joined the party by running into my eyes as tears of frustration poured down my cheeks, making the need to wipe it out very necessary, as it burned. I was smart enough to used a clean paper towel for this task, but wasn’t quite careful enough with my painted hands, so I transferred paint to the towel and then to my face and hair. Such a pretty sight!
Thankfully, the only casualty from this debacle was the garbage can. Stainless steel with a foot pedal to open it, I’d needed to use my paint covered knees to perform that task. The paint dripped all over the outside and the lid, but it was small potatoes compared to what had been on the floor.
I double bagged the offending rubbish and dropped it in the outside can to be taken away to the landfill next week. I wasn’t worried about sopping it up with kitty litter. Screw it. A person can only be so green.
Is it any wonder that I drink?