So, it was time to paint the porch. Husband was scheduled to help the neighbor do fence repair, which is a huge job of jackhammering through limestone. I was getting all my supplies out right before husband headed over to the fence. “Try not to get any more paint on the concrete.” He pointed to the spot where I had mixed and poured paint the last time.
He went off to drill holes in the earth, and I began painting. Goodness. Who knew that when painting eaves, those rollers spatter paint everywhere? I should have put some hairspray in my hair. I hear that if you do, paint will rinse right off. Too late now.
I painted an entire section before I accidentally knocked the paint roller holder onto the concrete. Yeah, the concrete that husband didn’t want painted white. Well, bother. I wonder what he meant by “any” paint. How much is “any?” Well, probably less than I had just dumped all over.
Bother. I picked up the paint holder thingie, but it sort of drizzled as I moved it off the concrete onto the ground. Hmm. Now there was even more paint on the concrete.
I used the paintbrush to scoop up the worst of the mess, only that sort of smeared it further along. And then the paintbrush dripped before I could get it back to the bucket-thingie. So I took my rag and tried to wipe up the rest, but, ohboy. I think we were well past “any more paint” on the concrete.
I had to stop my artistic work and go inside for a bucket and dish soap so I could scrub the paint off. A normal person would have gotten the garden hose, but the hose is currently hooked to my rain barrels and disconnecting that setup is not something you want to do while paint is drying on concrete that shouldn’t really have any paint on it. Well, actually it looked okay to me. Concrete should be whiter, right?
Bother. I had to get the kitchen brush and scrub the concrete because using the rag and water just smeared it more. After scrubbing and dumping water all over the porch, I took the broom and shoveled all that extra white water off the side. Looked pretty good. In fact, that one spot was *really* clean and the rest of the porch looked kind of dark by comparison. Well, he probably wouldn’t notice, right? After all, it wasn’t PAINT. He didn’t say anything about not washing the porch.
After about another hour, hitting my shins at least four or five times, dripping paint on two windows and stopping to clean that off, I finished the panels I was planning to do. There is another panel and four eaves that still need doing, but I am not superwoman, here. I was hot, sweaty and full of paint drips, blobs and dribbles. But, have no fear. I wore my old eyeglasses–you know, the ones from the eighties that no one admits to having. I also wore an old pair of shorts (yes, the one that I made. Because those shorts already look bad. Now they have paint on them, but since they are crooked and lopsided, who is going to notice a few paint splotches?)
I cleaned up a bit and decided to take husband and the neighbor some water. I certainly was thirsty, and they’d been out there as long as I had. I poured two glasses of ice water and walked over to the fence. This is a 6 foot tall fence, and they were working on the opposite side. I had to kind of peer between a spot where there was a broken board and call out. “Would you like some ice water?” I reached up with one glass and steered it through the opening.
The neighbor peered back at me. “We have some water here, but thanks.”
I hope he needed more because my hand and arm was a bit shaky from all that painting. As I tried to offer him the water, I sort of hit the post and well, lost control of the water. He was sweaty and hot anyway so *maybe* he wouldn’t notice a splash or even an entire glass of ice water being dumped on him?
“Hmm,” I said. “Well, uhm. You now have a bit more water.”
I was kind of glad I didn’t dump it on husband. I have to live with husband. The neighbor, not so much.
“Well, looks like you’re doing some good work here,” I muttered, backing away. “Glad you have enough water.”
And people wonder where I get my ideas for the zany Sedona stories.