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.