And it's what I get for trying to paint for 6 hours and getting virtually nowhere.
I've been preparing Hurricane's new room. Mostly because I have been feeling this insane need to paint. Because painting! Is! Fun!
I'm starting with the top half of his room which is this tan-ish color that defies description. The bottom half is this deep blue. I can't wait to see it all done.
I can't wait to see it all done because as often as I proclaim my love for painting, after 6 hours I start to remember that I HATE painting. My neck is sore and my shoulders are tense from trying to get good coverage on the ceiling and the higher parts of the wall. The last 3 little toes on my right foot are a lovely shade of tan-ish that defies description. Hair? Streaked with the undefinable color.
At least this time I remembered to wear old clothes. Because, as I am denying that I ever learned first hand, bright pink latex paint does not come out of anything made by Tommy Hilfiger (and I am so complaining about that to him. Not that it ever happened to me).
Hurricane will be moving into Girl X's old room. When we first bought this house, Mr X had the brilliant idea that we should let Girl X pick out the paint. She was 3.
She picked bright pink.
It was sponged on the walls because I had this crazy fear that it would be too overwhelming to have the walls completely covered in it.
When finished, her room could be seen from outer space.
If her door was open, their was this scary pink glow in the hallway. As if a radioactive marshmallow peep had taken residence in her room and wasn't going to leave.
After 2 years of asking every day if we could repaint the room in a color that would not restore eyesight to the blind only to take it away again, Mr X relented. In no small part to the fact that Girl X spent a week begging Mr X to turn down the walls in her room because it was keeping her awake at night (she has my flare for the dramatic).
So we ran to Home Depot. Mr X picked up a pale pink paint sample and Girl X asked him if he was planning on painting his room too. I think he got the hint.
Now at the ripe old age of 5 (5 and 3/4 mom!) she chose a soft blue and a muted green. They were strangely complimentary to eachother.
What we did not know is that with blue paint, you need a tinted primer. We did not know that the pink sponge paint was so evil as to not want to die.
We did not know that it would take 6, YES 6!, gallons of paint to cover everything.
By the time her room was done I had developed a tic everytime I saw a paintbrush.
I will never understand the part of my brain that allows me to forget my hate of painting long enough to want to do it again. I imagine that it's the part of my brain that won't forgive me for watching Alf for so many years.