Gloom, despair, and agony on me
{wrong finger, my friend}
Our house came with an orphan. Mainly, it came with a metal shed that, apparently, not even a mother could love. White, with forest green trim, it really is an eyesore; but it works–and who wants to spend hard earned cash on a nice, wooden shed? Not we. So, we opted for the solution of any DIYer worth her tool belt: paint.
Speaking of which, have you ever noticed how DIYers make it sound so easy? Don’t want to spend extra money? ‘Just’ add a fresh coat of paint. Not only that, but they’ve the photos to prove it. There they are, painting replicas of the Taj Mahal in skirts and stilettos, nary a hair out of place, nary a stray splash of paint. By the time you’re finished perusing their work, not only are you certain it’s possible, you’re sure it will be fun!
Well I’ll tell you now, it’s nothing of the sort.
Monday I skipped out to the shed–paint can in one hand, brush in the other–ready to get a good head start prior to the weekend. I finished half of the front; I also discovered my rather unique painting technique for ridges. Apparently, I hold the brush as though signing the letter “K”–thus resulting in a righteous blister on the callous of middle finger, right hand.
Who knew how often I need that particular appendage?
It’s even hindered my ability to hold a fork, prompting my grandmother to ask to see the injury for herself. This, no doubt, caused many a soul to wonder what kind of wretched excuse for a human being flips off her grandmother at an eating establishment.
I do, that’s who . . . but only because she asked.
