The Lost Week: A Painter's Diary
9 a.m. Start my vacation with a quick project: Paint the den. Figuring two days, tops. I shrug off the unsettling feeling that I’m deluding myself, like the time I thought I could change a tire and wound up bleeding all over my Tempo.
9:17 a.m. I start by scraping the glue left under the wallpaper border, which Theresa and her sister have already peeled off. How long could that take, I figure?
10:14 p.m. Go to bed, feeling the unmistakable early signs of carpal tunnel syndrome.
TUESDAY
9:30 a.m. Realize I’ve forgotten to buy rollers. Go to the store.
10:47 a.m. As I begin the ceiling, I notice that the paint flying off my brush seems to be seeking out the tiny spaces of floor peeking out from between the drop cloths, like cliff divers aiming at the oncoming tide. I make a mental note to go back and scrape it off later.
11:50 a.m. I agree to allow Jackie to watch me paint, somehow failing to realize that when you’re 3 1/2, "watch" means "make paint handprints on the wall while your dad is too busy concentrating on not falling off his ladder to notice."
9:11 p.m. I haven’t started the walls yet, but the ceiling is done, and I’ve thwarted all of Jackie’s attempts to climb the ladder and make handprints on the ceiling.
WEDNESDAY
8:53 a.m. In the light of day, the missed spots on the ceiling taunt me like something out of a Poe story. I make a mental note to go back and fill them in later.
9:06 am. I begin to tape the ceiling, woodwork, etc., to keep from painting them accidentally. About two-thirds through the room, I run out of tape, but decide it will be OK if I’m really careful.
11:13 a.m. Go to the store to buy more tape.
12:14 p.m. I notice the primer is not covering Jackie’s handprints. Hmm. Also, I’m beginning to wonder if I should have taped the top of the woodwork, since I keep getting paint on it. I determine that any surface not easily viewed by someone under 6 feet is not a neatness priority.
3:08 p.m. Theresa takes the kids out, so that I can take advantage of the solitude to lay the first coat of paint over the primer. I eat a frozen pizza and watch "Dr. Phil."
7:23 p.m. I notice the paint is not covering Jackie’s handprints. Hmmmm.
THURSDAY
10:50 am. My "Painting Shirt" is starting to smell a little funky. I think of all the other things I had planned to do on my vacation, none of which involved Glidden satin-finish vinyl latex.
11:48 a.m. I start on the second coat, only to notice that the amount of paint in the can has dwindled significantly, and the paint left in the tray, which I failed to save, clean out or otherwise address before going to bed, has congealed into a viscous paste. I determine that I will make my remaining paint form a second coat if I have to smear it on with my bare hands.
4:06 p.m. A vote is taken among the household and various visiting extended family members as to whether the room needs a third coat. I vote vigorously against, strategically positioning myself in front of the handprints.
4:10 p.m. I’m outvoted and Theresa goes off to the store for another gallon, leaving me to contemplate the physics of paint. Since I was painting a white wall a darker color, shouldn’t it have covered easily? Well, shouldn’t it? The glistening cranberry provides me no answers.
6:54 p.m. Looking around the room, it occurs to me that if I had hired myself to do this job, I wouldn’t pay me.
FRIDAY
9:33 a.m. As the third coat goes on, I determine that any surface not easily viewed by Danny DeVito is not a neatness priority.
2 p.m. The final coat complete, I set to correcting my errors, but all my brushes are too big. Rather than going back to the store, where the clerks have started to greet my paint-stained funky self with a look halfway between pity and disgust, I use a brush of Jackie’s that I believe was designed to be used by Barbie to paint her Townhouse.
9:22 p.m. Everything dry, I remove the drop cloths, rearrange the furniture and throw any equipment covered with congealed paint into the trash, making a mental note to go to Home Depot and replace them later.
9:45 p.m. I plop down on the couch to view my handiwork. And if I do say so myself, it doesn’t look too bad.
Personally, I think the handprints are a nice touch.