Abdication day

Any woman who is a mother knows that Independence Day is a misnomer.  Once a mother, you’ll never have that feeling of independence again.  So how did I spend my holiday weekend?  Painting at Coco’s new apartment.  Yes, she finally found one just outside downtown Los Angeles.  “On a clear day,” she says, “you can see the city skyscape.”  Funny, I thought, not often do you hear the words “clear” and “Los Angeles” used in the same sentence.  The painting would give us the opportunity to do something together.

Day One:  I grabbed my unused, still-in-the-box, Wagner Paint Crew^® power painter, a Valentine’s “on-sale” gift two years ago from my sensitive husband, and off I went.  I passed through some questionable areas of the City, and then I came upon a quaint area of Los Feliz.  Lots of duplexes and well-attended apartments lined the streets. 

I climbed the nineteen stoned paver steps to her upper level duplex dragging the paint crew behind me.  I soon discovered the Paint Crew^® required major assembly, and quickly gave up on that idea.  So while I’m laying drop cloths and taping, she’s on the phone making arrangements…  So while I’m painting the master bedroom walls gray, she’s evaluating and deciding she doesn’t really like that color…  So while I’m painting the living room ceiling, she’s conveniently making a run to the paint store for another color of paint…  In other words, the paint crew never showed up. 

While she’s gone on a run to select another paint color, her downstairs neighbor knocks at the door.  She extends her hand.  “Hi, I’m Pixie,” she said.  “And this is Cupcake.”  She points to the pit bull at her side.  I can see little pink cupcakes on the dog’s collar.  Pixie is, I learn, a yoga and spin instructor at the gym two blocks away.  She is covered in tasteful tattoos.  (Is that kind of like using “clear” and “Los Angeles” in the same sentence?)  She has two diamond-studded dimples.  She neighborly asks if I need anything, like a ladder or water.  I take her up on the water offer.  She returns with a mason jar full of water — the pickles label is still intact.  This is definitely not an Orange County neighborhood.

With hopes of completing three rooms, we (used loosely) painted the walls and ceiling of the living room and dining room combo.  We left the woodwork for another day.

Day Two:  I returned, Paint Crew^® assembled.  I was expecting another lone painter day, and dressed accordingly — comfortable purple ribbed stretch paints, now worn exclusively for painting splattered with every color I’d painted since the 80’s and a bright gold, paint-smudged T-Shirt handed down by Cheezy.  I’d pulled my short unstyled hair back in a one-inch pony tail.  To my surprise, a cover-worthy kind of handsome brown-eyed fellow opened the door.  “Wow, you brought the big guns,” he said, pointing to my Paint Crew.  “You don’t think a roller and brush would suffice?”

My cell phone rang,  “Mom,” Coco’s voice said.  She was on her way, returning from an overnight stay with friends.  “I meant to give you a head’s up.  The ‘Boy’ (she uses that term for any new dating interest) is coming to help. 

I worked in the master bedroom, now destined White Chocolate, instead of gray.  “The Boy” left for lunch.  I turned on the Paint Crew^®.  It sounded like a jack hammer.  When I lifted the spray gun with the roller arm, it felt like lifting the weight of my youngest grandson.  I should have taken on this task before I lost the 14.3 pounds.  The long red tubing was unwieldy and cumbersome.  I looked at the positives.  I wasn’t bending over to re-fill the roller (good thing or I would have toppled over) and the spread of paint was even.  Evenly distributed on me, too.  Barely able to stand erect, I moved the heavy attachment and pulled against the bulky tubing.  It banged me against a painted wall.  I kept up the positive thinking for one-and-a-half walls, until the paint crew (just like the crew yesterday) quit working.

By then “The Boy” returned from lunch.  “You’re really messy,” he said, after coming in to see how I was doing.  Puddles of paint from the inoperative Paint Crew^® lined the drop cloth from every spot I’d rested between rolls. 

“I fought with Paint Crew,” I admitted.

“From the paint streaked in your hair, on your face and arms, it won,” the Boy laughed.  “I told you it’s hard to improve on the roller and brush.”

Coco and the Boy went for take-out, though my outfit would have probably fit in in this neighborhood.  The three of us enjoyed our meal on the picnic table in the hedge-secluded front yard.  “This is an important question,” announced Coco.  “Would you rather be shot from a sling shot or a catapult?”

“Catapult, definitely,” said the Boy. 

“Yeah, me too” smiled Coco.

“Either way you’re going to die,” said the Boy, “but it’s all about the arc.”

Sling shot or catapult?  Wagner Paint Crew^® — definitely catapult.

Related posts:

1. Sunday morning with kids
2. Motherhood Á la arsenic
3. The unique one
4. I’m a rescuer
5. While you were sleeping