My Final Adventures in Painting

Shortly after my previous post, I went to Crappy Tire (aka - Canadian Tire) and bought a gallon of paint. I decided that I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I left our family room in the shape it was in.

This is how paintedly-challenged I am. I went to get the paint and told the teenage girl behind the counter that I wanted this particular colour. She starts firing decorating questions at me that I have no idea how to answer. Her first question - and more significantly, my answer - set the tone for the rest of our stinted conversation.

"What are you painting?" she asked.

I stood there with a dumb look on my face. "Walls," I answered.

She saw my dumb look and raised me a, "What are you, stupid?" stare.

"No, what kind of room are you painting?"

"Oh," I chuckled. "A family room."

"Do you have kids?" she asked matter-of-factly.

What does that have to do with paint, I wondered. Is that any of your business, I said to myself. What exactly was happening here? I soon realized I was taking more time to answer this question than any sane human being needs. I could see the confused look creeping back into her eyes, or maybe it never left. It was as if she was thinking, you either have kids or you don't. Make up your mind. I figured I should probably say something.

"Yes," I answered confidently, a question to which I finally knew the answer even though it probably looked like I didn't know. It felt kind of cool to answer the question like that too.

"'Cause, like, you'll need a semi-gloss paint if you have kids 'cause it's easier to clean and it doesn't fade as quickly." She managed to spew out her decorative wisdom in between some highly persistent gum-chewing.

Pause.

"Oh," I said, somewhat strangely feeling the need to contribute to the conversation but not knowing what else to say. A few more rapid-fire questions followed from this girl that likely gave her the impression that I was out of the institution on a day pass or something.

"So, what kind of paint do you want?" She was pouncing on me like an overweight kid on a Snickers bar at fat camp. I wasn't sure how much more of little Miss Martha Stewart I could take.

"Uh, just gimme the cheapest kind in this colour." I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead.

She walked away to get my paint and I breathed a sigh of relief. Thrift had won the day. And the most awkward conversation I've had in ... oh, I don't know ... at least three days, was finally over.

So I swallowed my pride - the little bit of it that I put on display at Crappy Tire - came home, and painted the room for the final time. I am now officially happy with the colour. It doesn't matter how many flaws it has or how many more coats it could have used, I'm never painting this room again. What I see is what I get. And when it comes to painting, I can live with that.