Last night, I learned why my mom painted and my dad did not. My dad may have been a perfectly good painter. Maybe even exceptional. But some things should be solo jobs. Yet yesterday, after a busy work day, we found out that the guy installing our carpet in our master closet wanted to do it the next morning (today) instead of Saturday. Can’t blame the guy. That meant that we should have the closet painted by today instead of Saturday. So we painted… together… in a small space. I was painting the ceiling with a roller on a stick. Travis was edging. I told him that I didn’t understand edging because we were painting the walls white and the ceiling white. Why not use one type of paint and just slap it on. I never got an answer for this, so it must be a genius idea.

Travis was giving a LOT of advice. I looked at him and snarked, “Seriously, I am painting a white closet ceiling white. And it’s a closet. I think the margin of error is pretty large, Van Gogh. Did I mention that it’s a closet? We aren’t hosting Thanksgiving in here.” He responded, “Maybe you don’t want to paint over the lights,” as he wiped invisible paint off a recessed light. I retorted, “Maybe those lights shouldn’t be on so I’m not blinded by them. And when did you become the paint master?” He replied, “Your mom was a phenomenal painter. If you could learn that through osmosis, you would be a phenomenal painter too. Turns out you can’t.”

At that point, Travis got a roller of white paint across his butt. I thought that was hilarious. I’m not sure he agreed. I told him not to sit down anywhere, again thinking I was hilarious. He opted to paint in his underwear. As some point he mentioned, “You and painting are like me and folding towels.” I replied, “Except that you have had 50 years on this earth to learn how to fold a towel and haven’t managed. My favorite way to paint is to hire someone. Are you some sort of linen closet renegade?” He retorts, “My favorite way to fold towels is for you to do it.” I’ve always suspected this to be the truth. He is a bad folder on purpose. That’s probably why he sucks at loading the dishwasher too. 

So that’s how our evening continued. The Van Gogh of white closet painting would get bossy and I would occasionally stomp off. But it got done. And with the ceiling lights on, you can’t even see my mistakes. I bet Travis repaints it while I am at work. I know I would refold the towels. 

In closing, I want to touch on 9/11. It has occurred to me that all those that perished had perfectly normal evenings on 9/10. They may have been fighting with their spouse while painting a closet. It fills me with tremendous sadness to contemplate each individual moving through a typical morning on his/her way to work or a flight. Let us always remember.