Nevertheless, painting has been called for the last two weeks, and I have dutifully pressed completely gorgeous Saturdays and Sundays into service despite their apparent usefulness as days upon which to sit on the back porch and read. But I digress into bitterness again.
I have a beautiful black upright grand piano, and I decided that the smaller bedroom in my home would become a music room. Feeling clever, I decided to paint the baseboards black and the walls white -- get it? get it? get it? -- just like my piano. I have been cautious with the black paint, carefully putting the lid back on instantly after use and putting only a tiny bit of paint in a paint cup each time I use it. It took me seven months to strip and refinish the hardwood floors in that room, and I had nasty visions of a gallon of black paint and the damage my clumsy self could do with just one errant kick.
On Thursday last, I was on my hands and knees in the music room, doing some last little touch-ups. I had dutifully wiped the rim of the black paint with a paper towel and set it aside before putting the lid back on the can. As I painted, I entered a zone, and then the cat came into the room, meowing and supervising, having a jolly good look around. She went over into the paint can corner and sniffed, but I wasn't worried, because I had put the lid back on the can.
She came out of the paint can corner, shaking her leg as she does when she has taken care of some business in her litter box. Hmm, I thought to myself, still not fully cognizant of the implications, she must have gotten her paw wet.
Like a slow-motion Keystone Kops character, I sat straight up. SHE MUST HAVE GOTTEN HER PAW WET WITH BLACK PAINT. I gave chase. She ducked. She dived. She powered up the stairs and hid under the guest bed, where she sulked for two hours before forgiving me for letting her get her paw wet.
She also left a neat little black paw print on every other step. Frantic action with a wet rag got most of the damage off the carpet, but I'm going to have to do some resanding and refinishing on the hardwood......
In other news, about three months ago, the handle to my linen closet inside my bathroom, where I keep makeup, deodorant and the other essentials of public hygiene, became stuck. At first I used up the toiletries in my travel kit, then I bought new toiletries, then I reluctantly called a handyman to come fix the door. The "fixing" involved taking the door off its hinges and removing the elderly latching appliance. I paid the man and went on my merry way, not considering the fact that the bathroom door latch is of the same vintage as the linen closet latch.
About six weeks ago, as I emerged from a luxuriously decadent bath, draped myself in a towel and then began frantically shaking the door when the handle became stuck. After about 20 minutes of me trying to find a tool in my bathroom to open the latch -- toothbrushes don't work, FYI -- the door knob popped and opened. I promptly "fixed" the problem with a piece of duct tape until I have time to call the handyman again.
Recently, the cat has become fascinated with running water, and I occasionally indulge her by letting the bath tub faucet drip a little. She washes her face in it, drinks from it and generally acts entranced.
Two nights ago, I kicked the cat out of the bathroom, turned on the faucet and started running a lovely bath. The cat pounded the door open -- easily enough when the latch doesn't work -- bounded across the room and threw herself into the bath tub, whereupon she almost INSTANTLY climbed the wall trying to get out.
I almost hurt myself, dear reader, laughing. The cat has not forgiven me. The latch has remained unbroken, that I might one day laugh again that hard.