Spillage
Or, A 'X@fS Nuts!' Situation Ain't Necessarily All That Bad Or, Brian Murphy For Hire For Interior Painting This Winter

Before

The front of the first story had been covered with ivy; tendrils clung tenaciously to the walls after it was ripped off.  Brian then diligently washed, scraped and sanded while accompanying some pretty heavy metal on his iPod.

In Progress

Contact Brian here. Some trim work remains , as does work on the back and other side, but the house has been rejuvenated and will be completed within the month.

We are painting the house. Well, that's a gross misuse of the royal "we." We are actually paying to have the house painted. Brian Murphy, one of our daughter's friends, is doing the job, and he's doing it quite well. Neighbors ooh and ahh. He's too modest to say "thank you." Instead he tells them that "Mr. and Mrs. Forbes picked nice colors."

I basically have one task beside paying Brian's quite reasonable fee and occasionally reminding him that winter is fast approaching and he need not obsess too much that the trim be absolutely perfect. (Suffice it to say that the trim is absolutely perfect.) That one task of mine is buying and delivering the paint. 

Yesterday, I came back from the hardware store with two additional gallons of trim.  One was nestled securely in the backseat. The other was sitting a lot less securely on top of the case that carries my racquetball rackets, which was resting on the floor of the recently buffed CR-V. Here's where you say, "Whatever demon of sheer idiocy possessed you?" "Why didn't you take, oh, about one second and scoot the case over a few inches?"Are you out-and-out-just-plain-out-of-your-ever lovin' gourd?"

Right.

Sure enough, when I opened the door in front of my house, the can perched on the case tumbled out and popped open. I watched the paint ooze into a mini-pond at my feet. I'd like to say that I'd bemusedly observed, "So this is what they mean by spillage." It was, indeed, about $30 worth of paint congealing my feet, threatening to gum up future production. And as much as I love to see an abstract business notion, such as spillage, demonstrated with a real-life example, this was more of an occasion to let loose with my favorite string of expletives, which begin with "fuck nuts!" and degenerates from there.

Brian assessed the situation and suggested that the best solution, in his estimation, was cat litter. No problem with supply, since one of our side occupations seems to running an orphanage for stray felines. (I don't exactly know how that happened. It just did one day.  I thought I was marrying one woman and her one, albeit totally daffy, Siamese; at one point 25 years later, we had seven cats running around and felt I was in the middle of a George Booth cartoon). 

I digress.

I dumped a bag of Tidy Cat (another $4.09 spilt) on the paint, then scooped it up with some cardboard about a half-hour later. It worked remarkably well. I got the remaining stain off of the blacktop with a little elbow grease and some hot water mixed with Murphy's Oil Soap (no relation to our painter), along with a lot of rags. 

Eternal optimist that I am, I reflected later that I really have been very fortunate. First, none of the paint splattered on the car, inside or out. (Actually, Brian, in an endearing series of observations meant to lift my spirits, first made that observation.) Second, the spillage occurred right in front of my house, not only making it easier to clean up but also sparing me the embarrassment of, say, having dumped a gallon of paint on Main Street and explaining said disaster to Officer Muldoon. Finally, much to my surprise, almost all of the paint came up. Whatever trace was left, has been washed away by this morning's rain. 

And so I resolve, summoning my most Zen-ish state of mind, to remember in the future that it is a cosmic blessing to be breathing and even a Code Fuck Nuts Situation ain't necessarily all that bad.

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