This morning, as I was backing out of out parking spot, I hear a cruuuuunnnncccchhhh sound. With the 50 mile per hour winds this morning I figured I hit a trash can that blew behind the car. I wish. I gingerly stepped from the car and spotted a crushed paint can on the ground. Super. We have about 4 paint cans in our double wide parking spot (that sounds like trailer talk, right?) because we have yet to bring them to the waste facility (you cannot throw them away since they are toxic). Somehow, my neighbor pulled out all his paint cans and added them to the mix, thus there are about 10 paint cans looming at the edge of our parking spot. Want to come over? We are wicked classy over here.
But, I digress. Now, back to the F*&#ing paint can. I picked it up, lightly at first to test if it was full. It seemed empty so I began to carry it over to the pile-o-paint-cans. However, it peed on me. Dripping gray-tan paint all over the bottom of my dress pants, my foot and ballet flats. Being a warm day, I was not wearing any socks so the paint slathered right on my skin. Me and the paint are no longer friends. I was able to wipe it off, throw away my shoes and continue on my day. Now, my pants (expectantly) have hardened where the paint was. Super.
Annie's "Evolving Aesthetic" — House Call
15 hours ago