Yesterday was a lovely June day—sunny and warm in spite of a few passing showers too insignificant to count. Myladylove and I mostly spent the day moving plants around outside and doing general yard work.
The only semi-disaster occurred indoors, while I was off making a quick run to the grocery for a few summer squash to cut up and combine with some sausage for our lunch stir-fry.
In one of those labyrinthian fits of female reasoning, logically abstruse to us lesser males, Myladylove decided to fill the brief minutes of my absence by repainting a kitchen wall. She taped off cabinets, corners and sink counter, spread a tarp on the floor, readied brushes, roller, and paint pan. All she then had to do was stir the paint in its bucket—for which we have one of those paddle mixers on a rod which you chuck in an electric drill.
So far, so good. Being the designated family painter, she's successfully done this plenty of times in the past. What she hadn't done was used any power drill other than the old variable-speed Craftsman. When she realized the Craftsman's battery needed recharging, she decided to use the high-speed, industrial grade Dewalt. A drill is a drill, right?
Well, not exactly, as she subsequently discovered…while also learning why paint mixing is something best done outdoors
Where the Craftsman putters along rather sedately—a retired schoolmarm in her Buick heading home from church—the Dewalt snaps from zero to screaming-fast in about a millisecond—a top-fuel dragster being driven by Don Garlits!
An explosive power-surge that's magnified if you've moved the speed selector up from 1 to 2!
Alas, I was not there to actually witness what must have been a truly awesome spectacle. When I got back, much of the clean-up had already taken place. The tarp, subfloor, and Myladylove's lower legs and feet were still covered in blue-gray Valspar acrylic latex…Arctic Ice, if I remember the hue's specific name. There was paint dripping from various points and objects, clothing, and areas of personal anatomy. But according to the perpetrator, what I saw paled by comparison to what I would have found had I arrived only a few minutes earlier.
However, all's well that ends well. Everything that needed cleaning eventually got cleaned, including Myladylove's lower extremities. The subfloor's blue-gray splotches will one day be covered. Lunch turned into an early supper. And though about a third of the gallon of paint is gone, plenty enough remains to get the job done. We'll have another go at painting that kitchen wall at some later date.
I also suppose a lesson or two was learned in the process. Maybe.
But just between me and you…I'd loved to have seen the look on Myladylove's face about two seconds after she squeezed the drill's trigger!