Crafts are the best. Even when you totally screw them up you can be all, So what? How do you know this is a mistake? It’s my craft. Maybe I wanted it to look like last year’s roadkill resurrected into this heinous looks-like-it-was-murdered-with-a-blender catastrophe. That’s exactly what I was going for, thank you for noticing.
No one will ever be the wiser.
The other night I painted pumpkins with my dear friend Abby. Not Dear Abby, no. I don’t know her. But I do tell her my secrets and she doesn’t tell me I’m (too) crazy. So that’s kind of the same thing. What’s said over margaritas in a crowded restaurant on a busy night where definitely no one can hear you (probably) is said in absolute, unmitigated secrecy.
Abby suggested painting, rather than carving pumpkins, for obvious reasons: pumpkin guts are gross, and paint fumes are fun.
Husband is very particular about what I may and may not do on the grass in our backyard. I sanded and spray painted this cool vintage dresser and turned the grass turquoise (this was four months ago and admittedly the grass still has a slight blue tinge to it).
Husband: This is why we can’t have nice things, you know.
Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about, we have a cool new dresser and now we can finally stop putting our underwear in those hanging shoe holder things in the closet. It’s unnatural and wrong. You’re welcome.
Husband: I don’t even like turquoise. This dresser is just for you, and I still have to put my underwear in the closet, don’t I?
Husband: Marriage is supposed to be about sharing. Do with that what you will.
It’s so great, I have an adorable turquoise dresser all to myself.
Luckily the spray-painting part didn’t take too long, thus interfering with the prosecco-drinking part.