Painting Fail

I love painting. I'm not terribly good at it, but there's something about painting a room that calms me, relaxes me, and sets the creative part of me on fire. I was reminded yesterday by Ben's blog post of the time I tried to paint the living room in my old townhouse. I learned then that although I have this desire to paint, I should probably just put down the brush.

During my last year in Tallahassee I lived in a two story townhouse with two of my best friends. The place was huge, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a giant living room and kitchen downstairs. It was there that I truly felt at home while in Tallahassee.

One day, while lounging in the living room, my roommate Sarah commented on our bare walls. They were white, faded white from years of not being repainted, and tall. The vaulted ceiling was beautiful, but very plain to look at. And so, we decided to spruce up the place, make it feel more homey.

Sarah bought green paint in two different shades and we decided to paint two stripes around the walls, above the door, creating a border. The top line would be dark green and thick, whereas the line not three inches below it was to be thinner and light green. We immediately got to work.

As Sarah measured out the lines, while standing on our wobbly wooden kitchen chairs, with a thin graphite pencil, Shannon and I marked them off, leaving a trail of blue tape to protect the wall. When the room was completely ready, we started to paint.

The dark green was first. We poured some out into a paint tray and placed it on newspaper spread across the carpeted floor. All being around 5'1", we all stood on chairs, stools, and one another to paint so high up. The line was looking good--thick and solid. I was enjoying the moment, hanging out with my friends and laughing whenever paint ended up on me rather than the wall (which was more often than I would have liked).

At one point, Shannon ran out to her car to grab a CD to put in our stereo. As she fumbled around her Alfa Romero, I started on the wall that faced our driveway. Since the couch was there, I figured I'd just stand on the top of the couch and paint away. I was light, agile, I could easily balance on it. I put one hand against the blinds covering the window and hoisted myself up. I stood sturdy on the back of the couch, painting away.

Until the couch decided to give up.

Under my weight, the couch fell backwards, tossing me onto the window and then to the ground. My knees hit first the windowsill and then the floor. Realizing what happened, I did the only thing a sane person does is that situation. I laughed. A lot.

Shannon ran in moments later to see me completely sprawled on the floor and the couch on its back. Sarah was beside her and with me, they both started laughing. Apparently Shannon knew to come in because she saw my shadow collapse. I looked up and saw a jagged green line painted down the blinds. So much for keeping the rest of the house clean.

We cleaned up the mess, fixed the couch, and bandaged my knees. We finished painting the rest of the room and eventually it really did look good. I became the designated paintbrush dipper, though. They didn't just fear my safety, they feared their own. After my spill, they didn't want the TV, the lamp, or one of them accidentally painted in case I fell again.


(For those in the 20Something group, I forced Samir to join and get a page so he could meet all of you. If you'd like, friend him and check out his blog. Although it doesn't tell stories of falling off couches, it is very good.)