My painting of the kitchen was going along swimmingly, and the walls that were finished looked good, if I do say so myself. We had just had new Silestone counters, oak cabinets, lights, and a new window put in, and except for the unpainted walls, everything was fresh and bright. Each workday morning I would get up a half hour early and paint about 50 square feet. I had been doing this for a week, and cleaning up completely afterwards before Beth rose. Then one morning at breakfast, Beth suddenly noticed. “That wall looks better than the other one”, she remarked over her coffee, “Have you been painting?” I admitted the sneaky deed, and pointed out the one wall and part of the ceiling that I needed to do. 

The next morning, I got up early as usual, and went down to the kitchen. Not planning to surprise Beth anymore, I had left the half-full gallon of paint on the counter, where it sat with its lid on, resting on a couple of sheets of newspaper. I spread some newspapers out on the floor and counters under the part of the ceiling I was going to paint that morning. Rather than stir up the paint, I decided to turn the can upside down and let it mix by itself while I toasted a bagel. I flipped over the can, and had just barely leaned over towards the toaster oven, when I realized the paint can’s lid wasn’t seated in the can. Paint was gushing out from under the can onto the newspaper, and waves of paint were now streaming towards the bare parts of the counter, aiming for the floor. Our new, precious oak floor! I envisioned creamy latex paint all over the oak, flowing in under the stove and the refrigerator, where it would take days to clean it out.

“Beth will kill me”, I thought. as I grabbed for the now almost empty can and managed to set it upright, while staunching the flows with newspapers from other parts of the counter.

Beth chose that moment to pad blearily into the kitchen. I shouted, “Newspaper! More newspaper!”. Like Florence Nightingale throwing a tourniquet on a war casualty, Beth jumped into the fray. Working together we absorbed the half gallon of spreading paint with bunches of newspaper, flopping them into the kitchen trash can. It took about a half hour to clean up the counter, but, thanks to a week’s worth of the Washington Post, we had managed to confine the flow to a few horizontal square feet, and somehow none of of the half gallon dripped on the floor. 

And Beth didn’t kill me. In fact she was very nice about the whole thing, and didn’t make me grovel or hire a competent painter.

–rakkity