My Love(-Hate) Relationship with the Painter-Dude

I went to work one day last week and left behind a huge hole in my kitchen ceiling... I can home that afternoon and my ceiling had no hole. As I stood at the back door, keys still in hand, staring at the ceiling, I felt the love wash over me. I was truly in love with the painter, Shawn.

Mind you, I could not possibly consider cooking in that kitchen, as Shawn's work had left behind enough white powder to have the entire US postal system in a panicked frenzy. I was mildly dismayed by this, but when I considered the fact that I had my own personal Michelangelo at work in my home, I quickly got over it. (I don't think having your own personal Michelangelo is exactly like having your own personal Jesus, but the spiritual effect is similar.)

Later in the week, our hallway, which had been a dingy disaster for almost 4 years (yes, ladies and gents, 4 years. Yeah, yeah, if you knew how much Andrew works you would understand why it's gone on so long... and yes, I could have worked on it myself, but there are parts of that wall that are physically impossible for me to reach. I'm still waiting on my wings or the ability to leap tall, even small, buildings in a single bound.) started to whiten, and then brighten, as Shawn, the paint-brush wielding genius, smoothed on first primer and then paint. Andrew and I both stood in the hallway after the first coat of paint and declared Shawn to be a master with a paint roller.

By this Friday the entire job was done. I had mixed feelings when I saw that Shawn's gear was gone from our house when I got home from work. It wasn't long before our relationship went south. I spent 6.5 hours cleaning on Friday night. Oh, yes, Friday night. Big happenin' party at our house on Friday night. Rock on.

First, there was the time spent with the vacuum cleaner, attempting to suck up all that drywall compound dust... After about 20 minutes with the vacuum I realized that Shawn, although a talented painter, was not the god I had made him out to be in my head. Then I donned my hot pink rubber gloves (you've got to do something to make the job more festive hence the pink rubber gloves) and went mad in the kitchen with soapy water and a sponge. I may have said a few things about Shawn that were kind of mean at that point. I felt bad and moved on to the hallway, wiping down every centimetre of woodwork. It was when I was crawling on the floor with the sponge that I cursed Shawn and his lack of a shop vac or some sort of filtration system. Finally, it was just me and Mr Mop. I danced my swishy, soapy dance with Mr Mop, cha-cha-cha-ing down the hallway, sashaying up and down the stairs, twirling through the kitchen. Our reunion dance was successful; We were Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, Mr. Mop and I. After everything was done I realized that although I loved Shawn for what he had done to my kitchen ceiling and my hallway, I could not possibly forgive him for the dust he had caused and how he had come between me and my sparkling hardwood floors.

Ah, the lessons you learn from love...

Mr Mop, would you care to dance? I think they're playing our song...