Painting Rooms (Part II)

Early the next morning, Mom and I arrived at the house and started “cutting in” on my bedroom walls. I quickly realized that the job at hand bore a striking similarity to putting on eyeliner, except I was working with a much bigger brush and a much wider surface. This, I could do. As I made progress, Mom started rolling paint on the walls that were ready. I kept working. I turned around a few minutes later and noticed a couple of small paint spots where Mom had clearly bumped the ceiling with the roller.

Just to tease her, I said, "Whoops, Mom, looks like you need to be a little more careful there! "What?" she asked innocently. "You're bumping the ceiling -- see those spots?" "I didn't do that; you did," she replied. [In the distance, a cock crowed. Et tu, Mom?] I handled the situation like the adult that I am: "Nuh-uh!"

We went back and forth for a few more minutes. I wasn't upset that she'd bumped the ceiling; my gosh, she was helping me out. But I thought it was so funny that she was truly convinced that she hadn't done it. But she had. And when I was rolling the walls later, I totally did it, too.

I was good at cutting in. (All those years of makeup training.) Rolling was a different story. Rolling required coordination and some level of comfort with the painting tools. If there is anything I learned at a multitude of childhood sportscamps it’s that if there is an activity involving any sort of eye-hand coordination or equipment, the position in which I can best serve the team is that of the scorekeeper. Or possibly the watergirl. I persevered, but the inner-Bree was troubled with my wall's final results. I called Mom in to inspect, and she said, "Oh, I think you're doing greeeaaat!..." (This was the exact phrase and tone of voice she used when I played soccer in the 3rd grade. I was so "great" that the coach asked me to stay in the back and "help the goalie".) I also looked down to discover a previously unnoticed Jackson Pollack masterpiece just outside the border of the dropcloth beneath me. Not only was I not great, I was also messy. Shoot. Clean up, aisle 1...

I had thought we were only doing the guest bedroom and the study, but Mom wanted to do all 3 bedrooms. The master bedroom has cathedral ceilings, which is why I was hesitant to tackle that room without Dad; but Mom said she brought "the big ladder", so we would be fine. After we'd already begun in my room, she looked up and exclaimed, "My word, that's tall; I'd forgotten about those ceilings!" I hadn't. But, too late now. Doh.

I am about 5'9". The ladder she brought was about 6'. I climbed up to the top step (the tip-top step is more of a platform, to hold paint trays and such) and realized that I could reach nowhere near the top of the walls from there. "Can I stand on the very top of this thing?" I asked her. "Oh sure; you'll be fine," she said. I put my paintbrush handle sideways in my mouth, held my paint cup in one hand and used the other to balance on the rail as I pulled myself to the very top of the ladder. I stood up, found my balance, and exhaled with relief. Then, the whole ladder shifted. "MMGGRRGGHHH!" I muffled through the paintbrush handle. "Bless you, " Mom said. After my heart started beating again, I moved the brush and informed her, "That wasn't a sneeze; that was me screaming with a paint brush in my mouth. The ladder moved." Seeing that I wasn't lying in a heap of broken bones on the floor, my mother looked up at me and said, "Oh. Well, you're fine now..." Moms. No blood, no sympathy.

By the end of Day One, I had so much spackling and paint smeared on and under my nails that it looked like I'd been given French tips by a manicurist with a lazy eye. I had also gotten it in my hair somehow, which looked like a kindergartener had decided to give me summer highlights with Liquid Paper. Lovely.

On Day Two, I got more paint on my clothes, more paint in my hair, and even paint in my eye. But we got the job done; and it looks a lot prettier and cleaner than it did before, so I'm glad it's done. And in true Southern female fashion, I have officially laid claim on the property. I have painted it. I have personalized it. I have made it mine, and it is good.

But if Habitat for Humanity calls any time soon, I'm still going to tell them they'd be better off just making me scorekeeper.