What is that, you say?
Just a little white paint. On the black and tan rug. In our rental house. Hilarious!
This little sitch occurred Sunday. Bored out of my brain after 7 hours of bad (lookin' at you, Giants) football, I decided to touch up some spots on the first floor trim where our movers nicked the walls.
Moi: Think I'm going to fix the marks by the stairs.
Jon: It's a rental.* You don't need to do that.
Moi: I don't mind. They left the paint.
Jon shakes the paint can while watching football as I hunt down a brush. He passes it over to me 60 seconds later and I, not trusting that he shook it long enough, begin to tilt the can to shake it more as I walk towards . . . the center of the living room. (Of course! Because this is in the opposite direction of where I need to be painting!)
Side Note: Jon and I are dressed in matching sweat ensembles: grey pants, black socks and Brown hooded sweatshirts. Only I have my Uggs on. Which I am prone to trip in, daily.
I begin walking towards the center of the room and over our precious Turkish rug and dog Houston, when I trip, lurch sideways and spike the paint can into the carpet and wall.
Like, I hate the rug, wall, closet door and antique dining room chair so much I'm going to punch them all in the face with this paint.
So hard, I will make them cry. Tears of white latex.
Which I did.
The next hour and a half is spent doused in water and vinegar and surrounded by crumpled, wet paper towels, as we attempt to mop up, dilute and lessen the damage of the paint bomb. No words are spoken other than silent terrified thoughts between shared looks. The Giants offensive game gets weaker and weaker. Hell has broken loose and moved into our house.
We finally give up, lay a towel over the stain and decide to reassess again tomorrow.
Tomorrow = Monday. Reassessment is I hate paint. Decide to address Tuesday.
*Bad Omen 1: We are hopefully signing a lease for December 1. As the landlords.