When I was quite young, maybe around 6 or 7 years old, my mother painted the kitchen in our late 1940s Cape Cod glossy pink. A bright clear happy pink, not Pepto-Bismal pink or girl-baby-room pink.
The remainder of the house was more...hmm, I don't want to say dull...more neutral. Why this pink was chosen for the kitchen, I don't know.
Well, anyway, it was a big job that took days. None of today's "dries in an hour."
A day or so after the paint job was complete and the kitchen re-assembled, my older brother was sitting on a stool in the kitchen with an open bottle of Coke. He put his thumb over the bottle top and shook it. He took his thumb off the top and jet-propelled Coca Cola erupted all over the kitchen. Everywhere.
There was shocked silence. I don't even remember any yelling. Maybe my parents couldn't comprehend having a child in high school who would do such a stupid thing.
I do remember the entire sticky kitchen was cleaned and repainted the same color pink. I think my brother was the painter.