Addicted to Paint
Henry thought our house was getting shabby. New paint, he said. I thought the house looked fine, why spend money on paint when you can spend it on chocolate and water bras? But I agreed to do the bedrooms. Little did I know those bedrooms would be a gateway drug to paint addiction.
|No camera has the capacity to capture the painterliness
of the paint.
Oscar-the-painter came. He was economical, but slow. Very slow. His beard grew to the ground as he painted our three diminutive bedrooms. Eventually we made him the emergency contact on our all our medical forms. I gave him one of my kidneys. He’ll be buried in the Colleary plot.
Finally the bedrooms were done. They looked magnificent. Farm Life Semi-gloss Green for our master bedroom. I could practically see the cows grazing in the bucolic pasture of our ceiling, the prairie dogs hunted by birds of prey as Henry and I rolled about in the tall grass.
Then there was the Restoration Hardware Butter in Claire’s room. A biscuit from John O’Groats never tasted so good as it did in those buttery quarters. Eventually the biscuit evolved into croissant, brioche and Je ne sais ce que from the Tuileries Gardens of Pear-ee.
Bridget wanted her boudoir painted orange. I tried to convince her that living in a room painted the color of a tangelo might lead to a career as a carny clown wearing a red nose and an orange wig while rolling around in barrels under the Big Top trying to distract the lions from eating the acrobats.
I found a muted coral I tried to pass off for orange. Bridget squinted at it suspiciously, no doubt recognizing this as just one in a long line of Mommy Betrayals to come, ultimately leading her to despise me in her teens, ignore me in her 20s, endure me in her 30s and begrudgingly forgive me for that freaking salmon room in her 40s.
Suddenly juxtaposed with the opalescent glow of our semi-gloss bedrooms the dining room and breakfast nook looked like WWII bunkers after the Nazis had tossed in a few grenades. They both had to be painted with SNIIIIIIFFFF fresh paint.
Oscar came back, feeling much better with his new kidney. He moved into our outdoor office. Had his mail forwarded to our address and changed his last name to Colleary. Eventually he admitted his 13-year old son was Henry’s love child. I forgave them both and asked Oscar to paint the foyer.
|This green reminds me of the Emerald Isle. Our
ancestors are calling us home.
Unfortunately we are never leaving this house.
After the foyer and dining areas were done the bathrooms looked like squalid tenement hovels where Charlie Sheen might be found propped up on a cracked toilet after a 70-hour blackout with a fern growing out of his you-know-what and an inexplicable Daffy Duck icon branded on his ass.
There’s the Glidden Golden Melange that you’d like to roll in like that ill-fated vixen in Goldenfinger.
There’s Swiss Coffee that makes you want to drink coffee in the Swiss Alp while getting all the Tiger dirt from Elin Nordegren. Wait, is she Swedish? Isn’t that the same as Swiss? Am I racial profiling Nordic blonds with ice-blue eyes? Who knows, I’m so stoned on paint fumes I’m not sure this isn’t 1991 and I’m not still a starving wacktress living in that seedy studio apartment just off Lincoln Boulevard where if you walked more than a few feet down a sidewalk you were mistaken for a hooker.
But I don’t care, just give me those clean, colorful walls and I’ll sell my children into carnie clownery. My husband and Oscar can carry on right under my nose as long as Oscar keeps painting. It’s just water-based paint. It’s not like it’s wood varnish. And I never let him paint before noon. I don’t really have a problem.