Nope, it has to do with the "pink bathroom" ... Eileen's bathroom, to be precise. The room where I went out and actually purchased coordinating rugs, towels, and shower curtains instead of recycling from the old house.
In her bathroom, there are her toys, her bath seat, and her bath soap. It is a precious place where any girl would love to play with her rubber duckies, get a bath, and otherwise wind down her day.
Until the oil spill.
I'm trying to make this place more of a home and less of an apartment. For instance, I painted an accent wall in the dining "area" (note the lack of the word "room") a vivacious blue. Liquid Blue from Sherwin Williams, it's pretty awesome. On it is hanging my portrait painting from Angie, a white fish platter, and some valuable painting the Cagles gave us that I have promised to never sell. It looks good. So, once I stretched my legs and got the brushes out, there was no stopping me and my creativity.
After painting the blue, mild in comparison to the colors of Raymond Ave, Husband gave me approval to do something with the Navajo White backsplash. Stainless steel paint? Nah, too many other stainless steel appliances. Chalkboard paint? Nah, too annoying to have to get under the cabinet to actually utilize. Painting a pattern of checks? HAH, really? I have no patience for that, according to Said Husband (he's so right). Round and round with colors, ideas, stick-on mirror tiles, until... I found... the coolest thing ever...
Sweet Goodness, for $20, I bought a quart of ... no lie... magnetic primer. Two to three coats of the very dark paint, let it dry, and then I can paint whatever color I want on top of it.
The morning after a rousing game of Bunko, Eileen and I shuttled off to the Home Depot with the other 250 illegal immigrants to find paint. Magnetic paint, Egg Yolk yellow (from the Martha Stewart line, which I am finding harder and harder to hate as I get closer and closer to 30), and I am out the door and back home.
Things are going really well. I am not a horrible painter, I'm actually quite good... unless it involves prep work. I do not tape up edges, I do not do trim, I do not do ceilings, I do not remove plates; I do carry a wet rag with me and clean up messes as I go. Brilliance. So, the paint is going on and my hands are tied behind my back, otherwise a magnet would already be in my hand. Layer one, layer two, LAYER THREE (something that always escapes my efforts), and it's done. It's awesome. Magnets stick to the wall. So cool. So very cool.
Being Wife of The Year, Eileen and I start to clean up our mess, because, really, what is smarter than a painting project with a 16 month old in her newest smocked dress?? I dump the magnetic paint tray in her bathtub and start wiping it out. Paint gets on her rubber duckies and I **toss** them into the sink set into the granite counter tops. I miss. Whatever, right? Just toss them in the sink and get back to them. Letting the water run into the tray and the blackened water splatter everywhere, I turn my attention to the ducks.
I start washing them and the paint... the paint just smears, everywhere. It's all over the little guys and I cannot seem to remove it. Eileen is looking up at me with a cracker in both hands and these sad, puppy dog eyes as if to ask, "mom? What's up with my buddies? Why are they covered in black paint?"
She starts crying. Of course she starts crying, because I cannot touch her with my hands in paint. The water is still splattering in the tub up the shower curtain and I am looking around wondering why in the hell can I not get this paint off the damn ducks.
And then, I started to speaking in tongues.
The reason the ______ paint was not coming off the _______ ducks, the tub, the bath seat, was because OIL AND WATER DO NOT MIX. It was NOT latex based primer. It was oil based primer. And I could not move as it appeared I was wearing black gloves.
Will was up the street studying at a coffee house for his _______ test and here I was, with a baby. Crying. And no way to get in touch with him with an absolute disaster on my hands, literally.
I manage to get MY PINKY clean and make my way, with the crying baby to the iPhone (that has no service). I kick it to the ground to the window and voice dial husband.
"It's not an emergency. Everyone is fine. But I need you upstairs right now."
"I cannot explain it. But, please, come home now."
Will walked in the door and I was standing there with a crying baby at my feet holding one of her blackened ducks up to me, wanting me to make it better.
We have no paint thinner. We have no nail polish remover. WE HAVE NOTHING. Because, really, why would we? We live in a tiny apartment and space is limited. Why would we need such things?
Will pulls out the vinegar and the Goof off, takes the lids off and hands them to me.
Long, long, long story short... we get it off of almost everything except the ducks, my fingernails, and her bath seat.
When it was all clean, Will and I walk into our bathroom and... having all dignity lost at this point, he has to undress me, put me in the shower and hand me the 409 to clean myself up. Just for the record, the Method cleaning supplies are much gentler on the skin and do not hurt nearly as much as 409, Goof Off, or Vinegar. Just for your knowledge.
I wear nail polish now. Because I am that kind of girl.