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Sunday, 17 June 2012

Home Improvement...D-I-My Way!

Once, when Dog was but a 3-4 month-old puppy and already possessed of a determination to become involved in everything her humans did at all costs, Housemate and I decided to redecorate. Naturally, this meant Dog stepping in the paint tray, her version of ‘involvement’. She managed to make quite a trail of fuschia pink paw prints across the hallway before we caught up to her. After that we have always tried to ensure the vicinity of wet paint is Dog-free. Not always successfully…

Recently we decided the kitchen needed livening up and that we’d go with a ‘cheesy Italian-themed restaurant’ look, red checkered tablecloth, plastic garlic strings and all. I had no idea that finding a red checkered tablecloth would be so difficult. We would’ve had better luck requesting Rumplestiltskin spin us a tablecloth of pure gold. As for red matt emulsion paint…there is a chance that a local paint store might still be able to order us some from its Mainland counterpart, although ‘might’ is often employed in these parts as a polite euphemism for “ Not a snowball’s chance in hell!” Apparently our fellow island-dwellers prefer shades of beige to anything even remotely fun or colorful. Whatever, further excavations in the Land of Kitchen have been temporarily suspended. I am so devastated by this I needed a drink to celebrate mourn.

We did manage, however, to obtain black matt emulsion for the bathroom; after a day of trooping around town, during which we did a lot of elbowing and excuse-me-ing ( the excuse-me’s becoming a little less frequent and the elbowing a little more so as the day wore on ) through the heaving horde of wide-eyed and be-sandaled tourists disgorged from the latest behemoth of a cruise ship to invade our little port. Oh deep, deep joy. Especially for someone like me who has a horror of people invading her personal space. Every time I see one of these floating luxury prisons chug its way into our little bay, I remember that there is good reason why they have so many bars and alcohol flowing 24/7: thousands of people all stuck on a boat together in the middle of the ocean - if there wasn’t alcohol they’d all be chucking themselves overboard after two days just to get the fuck away from each other. Christ, the very notion of setting foot on a cruise ship has me reaching for the rum bottle. 
Even this would be preferrable to spending time on a cruise ship...
Everything went surprisingly well with the actual painting until Dog decided it was time for her to inspect our progress. Unfortunately she chose to barge into the bathroom just as I was perched on a stepladder behind the door, brush dripping with black paint in hand…well, yes, of course the door whacked the paintbrush and the paintbrush whacked me in the forehead. According to Housemate it looked like I had “turned to Catholicism and gotten a bit crazy with the ashes.” Har har. Housemate also reminded me that since she has the balancing skills of a giraffe attempting to descend an escalator, it should be left to me to perch precariously once more, this time with one foot on either side of the bathtub, in order to paint a hard-to-access corner. Of course, we forgot about my natural klutziness, and I dropped a tray of black paint in the tub. It looked like something BP might have spilled, and was almost as difficult to clean up. At least this time I didn’t manage to trip over a faucet and knock the head off the bloody thing…You try explaining that to a plumber!

Even the simple task of picture-hanging is not without its perils in our house. I’ve been a little more careful about my hammering ever since I thrust a hammer right through a wall once…well, how was I to know that section of the wall had been shored up and re-plastered? And no, I had no idea why there was a shored-up section of wall in the living room, nor did I want to know why, considering the dubious location of that particular house. I learned another valuable lesson this time around, and that is: when hanging pictures it is always a good idea to ensure they are securely hung before retiring for the night. Being awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of said picture crashing to the floor and taking with it a lamp, some books, and a couple ornaments, is not a good for your peace of mind.

And now I'll have to brave the tourist-infested streets once more to hunt down a fucking replacement lamp. Seriously, they call it tourist season, so why can't we shoot them?!

Jane almost fell victim to a zombie tourist who tried to make her paint her kitchen in beige.

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