Painted Into A Corner

The lovely Mrs. G. and I spent all weekend painting, in preparation of Miss Katie’s upcoming high school graduation/gala/spectacular. Yes, Mrs. G. and I have worked much harder than she has these last few months ("senioritis" – big time) – someone ought throw a party for us when we’re through, too, don't you think?

Regardless, Mrs. G. spent Saturday & Sunday painting the basement W.C. while I spent my time outdoors painting the deck and window trim. I bought paint that I thought would match the current color perfectly – or, at least that was my goal. Turns out the little 2-inch cardboard card in the paint dept. at Lowes looks nothing like the real thing once it’s applied to the deck, but what the hell – it works, and it’s painted. Close counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and paint tints.

I really don’t mind painting. Mrs. G. hates it and calls it a necessary evil, but it doesn’t bother me that badly. Oh, don’t get me wrong – I can paint a deck or hallway with the greatest of ease, but please, please, please don’t ever ask me to paint a landscape or a bowl of fruit or a velvet impression of Elvis. Sherwin Williams I am; Salvador Dali I’m not.

But in my younger days, painting things got me in trouble more times that I care to remember – usually with my mother. No, I wasn’t one of those juvenile delinquents who went around tagging everything in sight with spray paint – I was more of a “scratch your name in wet cement” kind of vandal. But I did have two unfortunate issues in my life with brown paint.

The first one was way back in the summer of 1970 – age 5. Our house was being painted a lovely chocolate brown shade, and some careless painter foolishly made the mistake of leaving an open can of brown paint and a brush laying around where an otherwise sweet, innocent, and totally naïve youngster could get his angelic little hands on it. (See how I’m making this out like it’s not my fault?)

So what’s a Junior Picasso going to do? He picks up the brush and paint can, and decides to help out. But since the outside walls were already painted, and he couldn’t reach the higher spots, he turns to the next closest blank canvas: Dad’s aluminum boat.

My brother now owns the boat, and 35 years later it’s still patchy brown across most of the bow. See? Good artwork is indeed timeless. I spent years trying to convince my father that the brown paint actually lured rainbow trout to his boat, but I still don’t think he ever bought it.

My second Bad Paint Incident happened when I was 13. I had a paper route, and for an extra $5 from the district manager I was given the opportunity to paint the paper shack from the forest green shade it was to a lovely shade of…chocolate brown. That should’ve been my first tip that something was bound to go wrong: brown paint and I obviously didn’t get along.

So while I was waiting for a ride up the hill to the paper shack, I sat in the living room with my can of chocolate brown exterior latex paint sitting on the ottoman, which was also over Mom’s Prized Carpet.

Now, you have to understand that this was 1978, and Mom’s Prized Carpet in our living was definitely a child of the 70’s. It was shag (of course), and was called “Hawaiian Sunset” – mostly orange, with flecks of green, brown, and red mixed in. It looked like a loud Hawaiian shirt, stretched across 100 square yards. I wish I could adequately describe how tacky this rug was, but my folks absolutely loved it.

But back to the paint, which was perilously sitting on the ottoman. Mom was upstairs, Dad was downstairs, and I was sitting…waiting…waiting…kicking the ottoman.

And that’s when it happened. The can tipped over, hit the floor, and the lid popped off. And with that, one gallon of chocolate brown met the Hawaiian Sunset. And let me tell you kids – it wasn’t pretty. Imagine a brown oil slick all over Maui - it was that bad.

Now, what exactly are you supposed to do when a gallon of brown paint is pouring all over Mom’s Prized Carpet? I grabbed some paper towels and started wiping, as if that was going to do any good. Paint was everywhere – it’s not like I could cover it with a rug and pretend it didn’t happen.

But the worst part? I could hear Mom coming down the stairs. She came into the living room, where her precious little boy was busily and frantically trying to sop up chocolate brown paint off her Prized Carpet with a roll of Rosie the Waitress' finest paper towels... “Uh - hi, Mom.”

If you heard something that afternoon in the summer of 1978 that sounded like a cross between a sonic boom and someone’s head exploding, I’m pretty certain it was coming from our house. There it was – Mom’s Prized Carpet, now drenched in a 10-foot puddle of brown ick.

Long story short (too late): Professional carpet cleaners came in and got the paint out. The Hawaiian Sunset was saved, and that carpet went on to greater tacky fame until well into the early 90’s, when they mercifully replaced it with new carpet that is…light brown. (I guess I was just an artist ahead of my time.) I was busted in horrible, nasty, indescribable ways for my spilling sins. Okay, maybe I wasn’t strung up to a rack or beaten with a paint roller, but I was made to feel guilty about ruining the Hawaiian Sunset for several months afterwards. (I deserved it, I know.)

So let this serve as a lesson to all of you kids out there – gallons of brown paint and Mom’s Prized Carpet don’t mix.

Anyway, I’m thrilled to have the painting in my house done for now, although this summer I may try to tackle painting the living room.

But two huge caveats – one, I will be sure to use twice as many drop cloths as necessary, and two – our walls will definitely not be chocolate brown.