I was quite enjoying myself this morning, in a windswept and shivering sort of way. After doing some painting of an ‘on the go’ item, I stood back to gloat at what a good job I’d done (I was alone, so allowed to gloat and be quite full of my own importance).
After gloating, I decided to grab a coffee and tackle some prep of a writing bureau. I’d removed the horrid handles a few days back, so got stuck in with the sanding down, which was surprisingly easy. Relaxed and peaceful, I was wondering what colour would suit best the nice new handles I’ve bought for the bureau. I knew it wouldn’t last – I mean gloating AND easy sanding down in one day; nah, it was all just too good.
A person appeared at the paint shack door. It was my hubby, who had been up at my parents house doing the sanding of an oak dining table (or so I thought). “Ooh, I decided to paint the dining chairs and it’s all gone wrong and I’ve left your dad painting one of em”. I think I said “bloody hell” or words to that effect. I swallowed a big mug full of coffee in 2 seconds flat, grabbed sandpaper and 2 brushes and departed swiftly up to parents house, lunch-less, cold, windswept and quite grumpy.
Hubby was right, it had all gone wrong, big style, but just to make sure it was wrong, he’d painted 3 of the 4 dining chairs (I mean, you just can’t tell after one chair that it’s wrong, despite drips, drags and brush strokes (ridges) that you’d get a bike wheel stuck in!). My dad was painting the fourth chair. I was cheesed off. My dad’s job is to re-upholster and advise, my hubby’s job is to do the joinery type stuff, along with lots of other stuff like delivering and collecting, my job is to prep, paint and take the accolade for the whole thing when it’s done:-)
“I hate that paint” hubby was muttering, whilst he stood watching me sand back the mess. Dad was still painting the fourth. I wasn’t happy. I sanded and sanded and wiped and re-painted for far too long. “Your so patronising” shouted hubby, after I’d told him he’d used far too much paint and had rushed. I’m not a violent person, but I did wonder about hitting him around the head with the paint pot. The thought made me feel quite jolly. Anyway, I re-painted the 3 chairs, then went to see how I was going to salvage the fourth, painted by my dad. It was perfect. Dad had gone inside for a rest; I went inside to say bye before leaving. “Did I paint the chair ok?” said dad. “It was brilliant” said I, “but for goodness sake don’t tell Bri”. “Dad laughed”.
How the hell do you tell a hubby he can’t paint? He’s good at joinery; better than me by far, but he wants to paint. I’ve tried showing, but that doesn’t work. I’ve told him straight, but that doesn’t work either. He’s convinced that it’s the paint, not him. I’ve been a secret sander and re-finisher for ages; it’s exhausting!
And it was going to be such a lovely day on my own, just painting and prepping and pottering… Maybe tomorrow:-)