I painted the damn office.  After only six years in this house, I painted the bedroom that used to belong to The Boy Child, but now holds the computer and one metric ass ton of crap.  It was a Chinese lacquer red. You know how you always read in home magazines that painting a small room (this one is about 10×10) a deep color can actually open the space up or some such nonsense? Let me set you straight: MAGAZINES LIE.  Because it was semi-gloss, it was a little like trying to work inside a liver or possibly a spleen.  It is now a blue-green that was supposed to be more green than blue, but is actually more blue than green.  A fact which bothers me not at all because the room IS NOT RED.

I know.  You like a red room.  Your dining room is red.  It was a federal law from the years 1995 to 2007 that all dining rooms be painted red.  I like a red room too.  I like it in someone else’s home, not mine.  A person should not have to pay bills and print out coupons inside a spleen.  It’s too much of a reminder how much the phone bill is leaching from your person.  I should have painted the office the color of a turnip now that I think about it.  “You can’t get blood from a turnip,” is exactly what I say to the Bills as they gather.  They don’t seem to care.

Regardless, the room is now painted and the house is a full 20 degrees cooler and I have a new batch of paint splatters on my jeans which nicely compliment the deep, murky green ones from when I painted the bathroom vanity last summer.  And this brings me to my point.  I consider these my good jeans.

In 2007, about the time people were over their red dining rooms and started painting everything the color of a paper bag, I bought a pair of jeans at Target.  I liked them despite the fact that the zipper was apparently sewn in by a blind, three-toed sloth with no need of a zipper that actually met at the top.  The jeans were quickly repaired with a hair elastic threaded through the zipper pull and run a couple of times around the button.  It is a system that has worked like a charm for five years now.  I have gotten other jeans since then.  Some I picked up for $10 at a Rose’s in my hometown.  Some I spent a ridiculous amount of money for.  None could match the comfort and butt-flattering abilities of my Black Label (Black Label always means it’s fancy) Mossimo jeans.  They have patches in strategic places and I’ve sewn the pockets back on several times because I pull on back pockets of pants by sticking my thumbs in them. I don’t  know why I do this, and didn’t realize I did until I took an afternoon to sew up pockets on every pair of pants I owned with back pockets.

My good jeans are held together with hair elastics and paint. I don’t have to take paint chips with me when looking for fabric for the house.  All I need to do is wear my jeans.  I know these would not qualify as good to anyone else, but no one else has to wear them.  They have a sibling somewhere.  I blew out the back of them, put them somewhere I would remember to go back to them to fix them, and have lost them.  That’s okay.  They wouldn’t remind me what color I painted the guest room.


2 Comments Add yours

  1. Gita says:

    Yes, but what about your painting SHOES? All those dots and spatters… The groove on the sole from standing on too-thin ladder steps?
    Best painting product ever made: ceiling paint that goes on light pink or blue and turns white when it dries. No more missed spots.
    So, when’s the open house? I’ll bring home baked cherry pie.

    1. Susan says:

      And I’ve got a slew of ceilings to paint, too. Y’all come on anytime you want. My door is always open…mainly because it’s probably the next thing to be painted.

Just spit it out, already!

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