My, what a lot of things to comment on.
First, back to my painting the hall and why it is such a big deal. I know everyone has eagerly awaited my arrival in the thread to hear about this, so I won’t delay any longer, although I do have comments to make about bikes and spending the day reading two books and several other topics already mentioned. I know how anxious all of you are to hear about my painting experience.
You all remember, I’m sure, that I first painted a room (and by “first painted” I mean it was the first time in my life that I had done any wall painting) a little less two years ago right before I moved into my new house. (The house is not new–it’s a 1930’s California bungalow, but it was new to my ownership.) At that time, I mentioned that I had learned two things about painting–I’m not very good at it, and I don’t much like doing it. In the intervening months, nothing has happened to change my mind about either my ability to paint nor my fondness for doing it. However, I have a very little hallway. Just a little mostly square hall connecting the bedrooms and the bathroom with doors for the closet and the linen closet. It was painted a very dingy white and I had much brighter white paint (left from when I had someone paint my kitchen) and it seemed a silly thing to hire someone to paint a room this tiny.
So I painted it. And I did a much better job of it than I had done the last time I painted–so it seems I am capable of learning to paint, if not well, than at least adequately. I am now somewhat proud of my ability to paint a hall. However, I still don’t like painting, and so don’t want to become any better at it. I’m also the messiest painter over the age of 8. First, I got paint on parts of my body that were covered by my clothes. I don’t know how, but I did. And in my hair (I know how this happened; I bent down to paint the baseboard and put my head against the wall. The previously painted, still wet, wall.) I put down plastic and taped it so it would stay in one place and therefore not allow paint to get on my wood floor. This did not prevent me from getting paint on the bottom of my shoes and tracking it around. Nor did it prevent me from getting paint on my feet after I took my shoes off to avoid tracking paint all around. I found a perfect droplet of paint in my bedroom a full three feet from where I had been painting. I know I somehow did this–paint does not just appear as a droplet on the floor without some help–but I don’t know how I did it. I will undoubtably find paint somewhere else where it could not possible be, but is, and I’m waiting for someone to point out to me that, although I’ve showered twice, I have paint on the back of my neck or in my ear or some place like that.
I also managed to pinch my finger when I closed the step ladder, wipe my arm across my face and in doing so completely obscure my sight by getting paint all over one lens of my glasses, drop a paintbrush (handle end down) on my toe and give myself a nasty bruise on my shin with a almost full can of paint.
I, all by myself, am the Three Stooges of painting. :wally