Dear Ones, I have something to share.
Do you see this beautiful blue chandelier?
Let’s admire it for a moment, shall we?
It didn’t always look this way. In fact, it used to look quite different. It was a plain ol’ brassy thing, you know, the ones your contractor puts in when he builds the house? Well…I’ve been working diligently on my New Year’s resolutions, one of which was to go through my house, room by room, and organize our living. I thought I would start with my dining room, because I thought it would be the easiest (grin). I forgot about all the little drawers in my buffet and hutch. I forgot about all the woodwork that needed cleaned. I forgot that I never did like the yellow paint that I splurged on a couple years ago.
So I began with the drawers. That was the tedious task. Separating batteries from flashlights, throwing out old cookie cutters and utensils, yadda, yadda, yadda. Then I surveyed the wall. I decided to paint under the chair rail. Here are before and after pics. Tell me what you think. I kept the yellow up top, which made it interesting (and less work).
That done, I began to eye my chandelier. I googled painting brass chandeliers, and apparently, I’m not the only one with a project fetish, because there was a large body of stuff on this very issue. The key, according to the authorities, is a good primer based spray paint. My confidence was bolstered. I made my trip to the Home Depot and picked out my color. It was about this time that my husband started eyeing me suspiciously.
“What are you doing?” He asked, a worried look on his face.
When I explained my plans the worry lines deepened.
He needed to run some errands, but his parting words were something to this effect: “I think it’s a big mistake, but I know nothing I say will matter.”
Ahh, but the words of prophets all too often fall upon deaf ears.
What can I say? My beloved knows me well.
As soon as he was out the door I began draping my pretties with drop cloths and putting newspaper over the dining room table. Then, I went at it. My plan was to hold up a piece of newspaper with one hand as I sprayed with the other, to catch the backspray (is that a word?) so it wouldn’t get on anything else in the room. But my arm grew so tired of holding up the paper. Surely it wouldn’t matter too much? It didn’t look like the paint was missing the mark. I sprayed faster, as if doing so would keep the paint from going anywhere but on my ugly brassy chandelier.
Newsflash: the way spray paint works is through the release of numerous single streams of paint from the nozzle at one time to create a fine mist that, until it makes contact with the target object, is fairly imperceptible to the naked eye.
I guess I should say that the reason I didn’t take the chandelier down and to a better ventilated area to paint it was because no one in my house is an electrician and I had no idea how to do such a thing. And, my husband surely wasn’t going to encourage this insanity by suggesting I call someone who did know. Besides, I was in project mode. I wanted this thing done and done fast.
Everything went great. So I thought. When the chandelier was done, I surveyed my handiwork, smugly thinking that my husband would have to eat his words when he returned. I was minus a few brain cells from the fumes, but it’s all in for the sake of beauty, right? I went for a walk to get some fresh air, taking Lucy Mae with me, for fear she would succumb to the fumes, being of smaller stature and all.
When I returned, I admired my handiwork yet again, happy with the final result. I walked into the kitchen.
My kitchen with the white tile floor.
I noticed that I was leaving footprints on that white tile floor. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the white tile floor was no longer white, rather, it was covered in a fine blue mist. My wood floors throughout the first floor were the same. And Lucy Mae was leaving little blue footprints on the carpet in the living room, after walking through the dining room with the new blue chandelier.
Thank the Lord for the Hoover floormate. Yes, that’s it, sitting on my, now once again, white tile floor. This ingenious appliance allows one to clean and polish and vacuum up any inky blue residue on hard floor surfaces all in one fell swoop. For those of you who have followed my blog, you will note that this is the second time I have had to shampoo my carpets in two months time (see A Crappy Day). But my floors are now all sparkly clean.
And Jeff didn’t suspect a thing. Well, maybe he was a bit suspicious. When he returned home, he too admired the new blue chandelier, declaring it lovely. Then he peered closely at my face.
“You have a blue mustache,” He said. Then he leaned in closer.
“Honey, your whole face is blue.”
That’s right, Dear Ones. The other night, I exfoliated with Mineral Spirits. I think I might be on to something.
It gave my face a lovely sheen. If you don’t mind losing a few brain cells and putting yourself at an increased risk for cancer, it just might be worth adding to your beauty routine.
Have I learned my lesson, you might ask? I would love to say I did. But these things always seem to happen to me. I feel a strange sort of kinship with Lucille Ball. Does anyone else ever have these I Love Lucy moments? It seems I am constantly cleaning up after a mistake I have made! I know there is some deep scriptural insight about obeying my husband, or not caring about material things, or some such pearl of wisdom in this whole mess.
But doesn’t my chandelier look great?