A Firmer Step

We're not painting the door.

I know, I know! And do you want to know what's worse? JOHNNY was going to do it for me!

We went through this whole thought process that started with me wanting to get it hung before the family comes for opening day on Sunday, passed through the fact that this is the front door, practically in the living room, where everyone will always see it -- and ended with the conclusion that he's the professional and he really ought to be the one to tackle this job now that I was finished prepping it.

Huzzah! Right? I'm done! I don't have to ever think about this door again!

But then he really looked at it. And he started making "let's not paint it" noises.

And I said "I know, babe, I've been back and forth with that a hundred times myself. But I only stripped it with an eye toward painting it. It's not properly stripped and it has to get hung. I can't strip it any more, I can't face it any more. I've been yoked to this damn project long enough. We have to paint it."

"Bollocks," says Johnny. And then he -- with his guild-trained and Dublin-experienced, hundreds-of-years-of-painting-knowledge-behind-it eye -- observed something that sent spine-chilling images flashing through my diseased brain like the end of some cheeseball Agatha Christie movie.

Do you remember when I wrote this?:

I got dust everywhere. I had pink tears and pink boogers and pink toes and pink underpants – not to mention pink windowsills and floors. (you should remember, it was only like two days ago)

And this?:

When I hit this door with 750 degrees of heat gun, I got a yummy smell like at the fair. (This was longer ago, so here's the link, in case you don't remember)

And I never did write this part, but:

The cats have been hovering around the door ever since I finished sanding it. Sniffing it and searching around the hallway, looking all confused.

So do you know what Johnny said? Are you getting any ideas this from these hints? I feel like I want to have a contest about this, but I also feel like I want to tell...

Oh what the hell. Seems like Wednesday is turning into contest day around here; might's'well make it official. Call it the Humpday-Dumpday Who-Is-To-Be-Master Poem CONTEST:

What is it Johnny saw about the finish on this door that convinced him to convince me to keep it after all this bloody hell? You probably won't be able to google this one, but {see? I told you!} there are hints all over this post...