This walk down memory lane is a blog from a couple years ago. (Sadly, I still haven't repainted the red door.)
Something strange comes over me in the month before Christmas. A
restlessness. An inability to view my surroundings with anything less
than creeping dissatisfaction. The benefit of this emotion is that I get
things done. Tree up. House cleaned and decorated. But there's a less
beneficial side effect. I call it the 'Can't leave well enough alone,'
syndrome. For example.
When my sister Cindy lived in Flin Flon,
she was unhappy with her living room carpet. It was old. She longed for
a clean, bare floor. One afternoon, she pulled up a corner and, lo,
there was hardwood. Within minutes, (somehow, we drew my mother and
sister Susan into this madness) we were ripping the carpet away from its
underlay. We had it neatly rolled and were carrying it out of the house
under our arms when my brother in law came home from a long, long day
at work. He looked at us with such tired eyes. I felt like a thief from
the Christmas movie, Home Alone. Deserving of a slippery banana peel or
brick to the head.
Other years, I've satisfied myself with sewing
a Christmas table cloth two hours before dinner was ready to be served.
Or waiting to paint our rumpus room until Christmas Eve. Though we started at
eleven in the morning, I can still remember my sister Linda saying,
'Really? But I've never painted.' 'Here's your chance,' I answered,
shoving a brush into her hand. By four o'clock, everything was lovely.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.
I've done other
harebrained things, but this year's been the worst. Yesterday, I got
the brilliant idea that I should paint the inside of my entrance door
red. I've always wanted a red door, and why not have it done in time for
Christmas? Clarence was in Winnipeg, so there was no one to talk me out
of it. Fifteen minutes later, I was at Canadian
Tire buying a small can of paint, a little tray and a roller. I
had washed the door before leaving home.
Filled with
delight, I quickly assembled a drop cloth and small ladder. When I
opened the can, the smell hit me right away. I had purchased Tremclad,
since this was a metal door. It's an oil based paint, which, in my enthusiasm,
hadn't occurred to me. Within minutes of applying it, I felt dizzy. Fifteen minutes later I had a headache the size of
Montana. By the time I finished and was making lunch, I was staggering
around the kitchen like I'd just drunk a forty of tequila. Volatile
organic compounds. It's tequila with a side of brain damage.
I
immediately checked with our family paint advisor, sister Joni. After
berating me in an appropriate fashion, she advised letting it dry, then
priming it over with latex and repainting with the same. It might help,
she said darkly. And, what were you thinking? Well, Joni. Alas. I
wasn't. Enthusiasm for my latest project drove all common sense away.
So today, once I've passed the twenty-four hour drying minimum, I'm
repainting. Even if it didn't smell so bad, I'd have to, anyway.
Because, though I did a good job, it looks terrible. The door actually
seems possessed. There is something menacing about it, even without the
odor. A malevolence. Like killer children should be waiting for me at
the end of a long hallway. Or Jack Nicholson with an axe.
The
downside is, I had to redirect my bookclub to my generous friend Kate's
house. The upside is, I no longer want a red door. I've often admired
them on other people's houses. But in my tiny foyer, it practically
slaps your face as you walk by. So, lesson learned. Sigh. Now to finish
gyp rocking the basement ceiling. Just kidding, honey. You're not coming
home until tomorrow, right?
