Our old kitchen table was covered in microscopic specks of paint. I hadn’t noticed them for months. Yet, when I did, I spent the better part of an afternoon trying to clean them off.
I shared all about this evil afternoon several months back.
Shortly after reading that Saturday Morning Story my wife confessed: “In my defense: I noticed them and tried to clean them, but they were oil-based paint.”
Well, that’s great.
“How do you spell that?” I asked my artist wife.
Her response was a facepalm followed by a slightly annoyed look.
Minutes earlier, I had drawn her into a conversation about her favorite historical artists. We were sitting at our kitchen table following dinner one spring evening. The sun was setting outside the window at the end of the table.
As it continued to descend, she didn’t seem too keen on my interest, especially since she knows how much I “enjoyed” my university Art History course. Hint: Not. One. Bit.
It never stood a chance.
We recently renovated our kitchen and the last piece was the kitchen table.
The old kitchen table was a giant, dark brown behemoth that served us well.
Many family meals were enjoyed there. Christmas breakfasts, Easter dinners, and birthday cakes came and went.
Like ants swarming a cake at a picnic, the tiles were everywhere.
These 4-inch by 4-inch tiles covered our kitchen. Normally, the prospect of renovating our kitchen would excite me, but these tiles showed up years before our current kitchen renovation was even a twinkle in my eye.
No, these tiles were very much a thorn. They were for a large project my artist wife was fortunate to be working on with dozens of other artists alongside residents of communities across Canada.
It was the afternoon of New Year’s Eve when I discovered my arch nemesis.
My wife’s new robot vacuum was scuttling about our kitchen, hitting walls and appliances at will, and plotting how to take over the world from our Canadian prairie suburb.
Meanwhile, I was in full-on vacation mode, lounging on our couch killing time thumbing through my social media news feeds. My Facebook friends and groups were doing a lousy job of keeping me entertained. (Cue Russell Crowe.)
“Yeah, they’re cute and fun,” my wife, the artist, told me a few weeks ago, “but they sell.”
When I realized she wasn’t talking about Cabbage Patch Kids, she continued her detailed and passionate explanation.
“People love them,” she added, “and they’re collectible too.”