The Pain of Paint
Laying It On Thick

My husband, the Rembrandt of home renovators, loves to paint. For him it's deeply satisfying to guide a paint roller across uncharted territory. He thrills to the feel of a hog bristle brush in his hands. He loves to dapple, spackle, putty, and prep. He's mesmerized by drips. So when I suggested we paint and redecorate our son's room he didn't give me his usual lecture about fiscal management and cost overruns.

It was also obvious to everyone that the Ninja Turtle décor in the kid's room was past its prime. After all, he's in junior high school now.

Since I hate to paint my duties were to pick out the paint color and come up with a brilliant decorating scheme, a job that combined hen-pecking skills with my gift for design.

Indecision immediately had me in its evil clutches, though. Did we want a rustic cabin in the woods motif? Should we go for the timeless appeal of Elvis? Or a Lord of the Rings theme? Perhaps a nature mural or seascapes stenciled on the walls?

I didn't want to get sucked back into the insomnia and insanity of the Zorba the Greek living room curtain fiasco with this project. This time I'd be calm and rational.

First I had my husband remove the unsightly mini-blinds that had hung on the windows since 1960.

Common sense dictated that silk shantung drapes with gold leaf tiebacks were ill advised in a room that serves as a hideout from parents, and a repository for toys.

As I debated the virtues of Roman shades versus textured sheers, my husband's eyes started to glaze. Our son didn't care-an old sheet would work for him.

After an exhaustive search I found some wooden curtain rods in fake maple that matched the antique bed and dresser.

Three weeks and four return purchases later I located a pair of tab-top curtains. They're not exactly what I wanted but will have to do until the real thing comes along.

I yearned to substitute the worn comforter and bed skirt for Belgian linens, but settled for a muted but macho plaid Martha Stewart comforter, matching sham and dust ruffle. So much for trying to wean myself off of Martha products-she's just so darn good at what she does.

Then I turned my attention to the paint. The white walls had to go, but because the room is small a dark color was out of the question. I also had to match the curtains and bed linens.

I entered the store full of optimism only to have my hopes dashed when the clerk refused to become embroiled in my decorating problems. I was alone in my quest, adrift on a sea of colors. Choices ran the gamut from antique alabaster to zany zephyr, from romantic Renaissance to Leave it to Beaver retro.

Finally, with great trepidation I chose a blue green shade called "sea foam."

The great day arrived. I assembled the troops for a pre-painting pep talk.
"Okay, repeat after me. Paint is our friend. Paint is here to help us. We are not intimidated by paint," I said.
"Do I hafta, Mom?" the kid said.
My husband glared at me: "Step aside and let me at it!"

During the next few hours, I pointed out spots my husband missed, critiqued his work and performed other supervisory duties. When I became entangled in the drop cloth, and accidentally brushed against wet paint, I was asked to leave.

When the job was complete we stood back to admire the work.

"It looks different than it did in the store," I said.
"You picked the color," my husband said.
"It's okay, Mom, I like it," said my adorable son.
"It's so Miami Vice! So Santa Barbara, so French Riviera!" I wailed. "What have I done?"

The next day, still overwrought, but trying to be adult, I went to examine the room. I noticed the paint around the mirror on the closet door, which my husband had neglected to remove before painting, was still tacky. I touched it. To this day, I don't know why.

My finger left an imprint. Before I could stop myself, I removed the mirror and started peeling away the paint. Some of it came off easily in long leathery strips; other sections were dry and granite-like.

I scrapped away, burrowing through four layers of paint until I reached what must have been the original 1940s-era primer. The door resembled the landscape on Mars-crater-like, scabby, desolate.

I sent the kid to the garage for the electric sander. After hours of backbreaking toil it occurred to me that sanding is ineffective on semi-wet paint.

"Paint remover. That's what I need," I told the kid.
"Mom, you better let Dad do it."
"I do not want your father involved. I've got to fix this before he gets home."
"An acetylene torch. That's what I need. Get the phone book and look up equipment rentals," I said.
"Geez, Mom, you want to burn down my room? Let's wait for Dad!"

When my husband arrived I was close to tears. The door and I both looked like extras in a horror movie.

"What in hell happened?" he said.
"I was just doing a little touch-up work, darling, when things got a bit out of hand."

My husband spent the rest of the evening repairing the damage. The next day he moved the sander and painting supplies to an undisclosed location and informed the equipment rental place not to take my calls.

Happily, the color has started to grow on us and my husband is fully recovered from this painful paint experience. I gained wisdom and insight, too. I learned it's not easy being Rembrandt's assistant.

Madcap Mary Mendoza, formerly known as Hurricane Mary, lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, son, three cats and 200,000 Sunset magazines.

Madcap's humor columns and feature stories have appeared in publications around the Northwest as well as online. She is the author of The Adventures of Madcap Mary, a collection of humorous stories. Madcap can be reached at madcapmary@comcast.net. Her Web site will premiere soon at: http://www.madcapmary.com.