Payback is hell
The cats exact their revenge
When we last left the feisty felines, they were dancing the night away to the theme from Cabaret. The other day I caught the girls singing, in their shrill little voices, “The Cell Block Tango” from Chicago:
She had it comin’, she had it comin’,
She had it comin’ all along
Except, instead of hissing “Cicero!” they spit “Polyurethane!” which is a lot harder for a cat to pronounce than Cicero.
Strange, yes, but I’d forgotten about it by the time we went to bed. I fluffed and turned my pillow and slipped between the sheets … and caught a strong whiff of … cat pee. I flipped the pillow back over and it was soaked. Gross, you’re thinking? Yep, and damned inconvenient, too, having to get up and strip the bed and start the washer at 11:45 p.m.
I know cats live stressful lives, fraught with angst about their social status, perceived slights from other cats, and changes to their delicately crafted routines. I get that. But peeing on mom’s pillow?? Because she turned their Kit-Cat Room into a paint booth? The perp is still at large, although I’ve pretty much absolved anyone who regularly sleeps on the bed (Eric and the boy cats). Lucky for them they’re so cute, otherwise they’d be living on the streets.
When you live with seven cats, you don’t get much sympathy when things go cattywampus. Yes, seven is too many, but then again, they make an awesome chorus line.
And the paint goes on … and on and on …
I like to think I know a thing or two about painting. I even painted semi-professionally for a while, before my bifocals made it a pain. So after finishing Carcass No. 1’s interior, I was looking forward to slapping a coat of Chef White on the exterior. I had a half gallon of Chef White left over from the bathroom project a few years ago, and, since it seemed in decent shape, I decided to be thrifty and use it up before opening a fresh can. The painting process went something like this:
- Sand—a lot.
- Prime. Grain raises, not unexpectedly.
- Prime again.
- Paint second coat. Not smooth enough.
- Paint third coat.
I’m resigned to the sanding, but I was hoping to cut down on the cussing, so I consulted an online paint forum, looking for the secret to a silky-smooth finish. (Yes, I’m that obsessed with this project—I actually read online paint forums). Apparently a paint additive called Floetrol was to be my salvation. I scurried to the box store to buy me some. Back in the lab, I mixed a little Floetrol with the paint and applied the third coat … but the brushed dragged and the paint felt gummy. @#$%^!!! In the time it took to add more Floetrol (hoping I was going in the right direction), what I’d already applied turned gummier yet. I couldn’t go back over it to correct the tacky portion, so I quickly painted the rest of the carcass, which seemed to turn out okay—and with the smoother finish that I’d hoped for. But dammit, now I have to sand and repair one end of the cabinet, all because I wanted to use up a can of $35 paint. I am NOT happy. The cocky painter is humbled … no, I’m pissed. I almost feel like peeing on someone’s bed.