Of Lime-Drops and Revelations

Sooooo…..I’ve been busy proving an interesting phenomenon: Why painters are often alcoholics (look it up, it’s true, I swear!). It’s a very simple answer, but I thought that I’d do a little photo-illustrated essay. Last Friday, while in the midst of having a Star Wars Marathon with a certain Good Little Boy who did ALL his homework for the week early (keep it up, boy, we’ve got two and a half more movies to go, plus the bonus reels!), I thought I’d start painting my kitchen. Like you do, right?

Naturally, whilst I was in the middle of the second day of painting, I a) had a quart of LAMP OIL, yeah, I said it, lamp oil - what is this, 1890? We don’t own a lamp that needs oil, no more than we own a milk cow or use an outhouse for our bottom system needs…any rate, a veritable flood of FLAMMABLE OIL doused my wood floors and a bunch of FLAMMABLE MATERIALS that were on the floor due to my cleaning out the kitchen so I could paint it. So…that was fun. Right about the time that I was done with my Dread Pirate Roberts, “ye who toucheth this floor shall walk the plank” impression, we got a phone call.

We were having company. In about three hours. Hooray! You see, our friend Peter (the SightSpeed guy, remember?) if you don’t remember him, you should look him up on YouTube and see his coverage of the Florida debate. Or just the Dali Museum part, whatever. Seriously, you owe it to yourself to watch that whole segment! Any rate, Peter and the Lovely One got to spend what was doubtless a lovely night filled with pleasant, paint-fume-y dreams at our house (sorry guys, I promise I won’t be in the midst of Home Improvement 2.0 the next time you come down!) and that was FUN. I perched in the kitchen, one foot on the counter, the other across the way on the opposite cabinet, holding a small tray of paint and attempting to hold up some sort of conversation.

But how did this mess get started? Well, you see… Fig. 1: While re-papering my drawers, inspiration
struck. I had white and blue paint, all I needed was a little bit of brown for the trim and presto! new kitchen! It was meant to look something like this, with white ceilings and the two pale shades of blue. Being a regular Tim Allen, I thought I’d do a couple of ‘test patches’ first. Here’s what it looked like:

Fig. 2 This was taken about three days later - after I had to paint the ceilings THREE TIMES due to a Home Dumb*** screw-up. I asked for, well, Scott, bless his heart, asked for Polo Mallet White about four or five times. This is a bright, extra-clean looking, glossy, blue-white. After I’d already done a test patch and all the cutting-in, I discovered they’d given me a gallon of a yellowy tinged white. Which was quickly followed by the blue streak coming out of my mouth. I apologize for that.

My kitchen is only about four feet wide at most - I can touch the cabinets on both sides without extending my arms. If you have the fridge, stove or a cabinet open, it is difficult or impossible to walk by. Two adults can barely co-exist in the room at the same time. In short, it’s a galley and I could easily adapt to living in New York or Paris or a boat or anywhere you have a cutting board and a bunsen burner atop a washing machine. Yet somehow there are TEN MILES OF TRIM, THE TRIM OF SATAN HIMSELF, ‘decorating’ (read: collecting dust and kitchen film) this tiny area. In my haste to be done already and restore circulation to my limbs, I *may* have rushed the removal of the blue masking tape that is SUPPOSED TO NOT RIP THE NEW PAINT OFF YOUR WALLS. Go ahead and click to enlarge and know that the paint color you see there? I MIXED IT UP MYSELF. Which means that I will have to go crazy trying to re-create the exact shade(s) that I need. AWESOME.

Fig.3 - Still more Trim of Satan, the wall I will have to re-paint, part of the ceiling I will need to re-re-re-re paint, and the trim that will need to be done over again. Plus a view of the cabinet that I ‘discovered’ hiding behind my microwave. No, I am NOT joking - when we moved in here seven years ago, we pretty much THREW everything into the kitchen, willy-nilly. Not having any room on the countertops for a microwave, I tossed it onto the top of the fridge. Where it has rested, mostly functioning as a popcorn popper, and causing me to tip hot liquids on my own head on a regular basis. Because I am wee and EVERYTHING is taller than me. This cabinet is a boon, discovered when I got the crackheaded idea that our fridge and stove needed to do a little d0-see(si?)-d0. Unfortunately, it is now located over the stove, and I can just barely see what is in the bottom shelf. (Nothing, at the moment). I forsee a time when I try to reach up to get something and burn my stomach/hand/boob on the still-hot stove. It’s definitely coming, y’all. I feel it in my bones.

Fig 4. - In which I had removed my trim, ripped off a big bit of paint, and got mad. Note the pile of paint on the floor. This ugly scene was repeated about three times and it’s been cold and wet ever since I started this which means: ALL WORK HAS STOPPED. I have a ghetto kitchen…somehow more ghetto than when it just needed a paint job, really really bad. How is this possible? LOOK:

Sexy it is. Professional looking, yes, yeeeees. (You’ll need to go ahead and do a Yoda voice for that bit.) Finished it is not. There is no try, only do and do and do over again.

Fig. 5 - The Ghetto Kitchen. Because I am more Tim Allen than Bob Villa, this is the bottom of the Lost Cabinet and the area where the fridge formerly was. In my infinite stoooopid, I had painted the wall to the right of this a pale blue, and wrapped it around behind the fridge…and the area to the left a darker blue. (Go look at Fig. 1 - there are two colors of blue dots. Promise.) Look around your kitchen and want to cry. Spot a martini glass (after retrieving it from the bar cabinet, of course, what do you think, I just leave martini glasses hanging around my house?). Stop to think. Realize you are thirsty.

Stupid you are, my young Paduan learner. Very stupid. Why could not you have just picked one color of blue and stuck with it?

Hey Yoda?

Yes, my young one?

How did you get into this entry? And can you leave now? I’m sure there are better things a Jedi Master can do than tell me that I should have primed and sanded. I KNOW that, I was just, ummmm inspired. Ahh, look, there’s Fig. 6 - Relief. Sweet, limey relief.

How about a recipe, this painting crap is boring. Here’s one!

How to Make a Lime Drop (and totally shed your painting and home decor/demolition worries, since all the available counter space is coated with cans of paint and paint shavings), by Maya

Step One: Assemble the ingredients: Chilled shaker, ice, vodka, raw sugar and a lime, not a lemon. Or a blood orange, tangerine, mandarin, grapefruit or…ok, you can do a lemon if you MUST. But I like lime much better - try and pick a more yellow one, because as they ripen, limes are yellow, not green.

Step Two: Release any frustration you may be holding in by slowly squeezing the life out of the lime, pretending it is the (insert body part of choice) of your current antagonist. In my case, the dolts at Home Dorkpot. Watch the juice stream down the ice cubes, like so much healing balm. Smell the delightful…well, let’s get to the good bit, huh? Mind the pips!

Step Three: Wipe the rim of the glass with the other half of the lime, wetting it thoroughly with tasty, juicy goodness. Think about how you will soon be sipping it and those numbskulls who can’t tell Slightly Yellow White from REALLY REALLY White, although it is their JOB, are probably hoping for a sip of a wine cooler. Revel in your awesome ability to purchase (and discriminate between) real drinks. Hurry it up a bit, could we? Thirsty I am, young one. I didn’t know what a lush you were, Yoda…on the other hand, this IS a green(ish) drink that doesn’t involve creme de menthe or apple pucker, so…I see your point.

Step Four: Sugar the rim. Imagine the small crunching noises are the small crunches of …small crunchy things. Set the glass aside, in the freezer if you want to be really fancy.

Step Five: Pour the vodka over the lime and shake it like you’re a bad nanny with a raging case of P.M.S. Or the way you’re NOT SUPPOSED to shake a Polaroid picture, durnitall stupid Black Eyed Pea-type people.

Step Six: Pour, garnish with a lime curl and gulp it down like you’ve been wandering the Kalahari desert for a week sip it like a lady. Or gentleman. Or…greenish creature who has somehow taken over this post By using Jedi secrets, my young Paduan. The lime drop, bring it here.

Yes, Jedi Master Yoda.

All of this just proves my theory: The reason painters are more likely to become alcoholics? It’s simple, elementary, really.

PAINT. Dastardly, hideous, uncooperative paint. The first one to comment about how to trim and mask and prime and all that rot gets it right in the kisser. Heh. I’m off…like my new paint! Anger leads to agress—-(THUD)