So last night I walked in the door, and John yelled up from downstairs in his I'm-not-happy-in-the-least voice. No matter how old I get, or what the circumstance is, I am immediately transformed into my four-year-old self. I cower, and say an inner curse word, (starts with an S) and go see what the matter is. He said to bring a magic eraser, and I know that something has happened with my bloody oil painting I'm working on for my design class. Yes, that wasn't a typo. Sometimes I wish I was kidding about it, but I was naive enough to dive into a medium I had never worked with. Ignorance is bliss, right? But now that I've come this far down the yellow brick road, it's just too late to turn back.
As I stepped into the studio, there is a huge circle of where the painting had fallen from the table, literally face first onto the floor. Too bad I was foolish enough to put the painting on a precarious spot and hope for the best, with a fan pointed at it to speed up the drying process. I didn't want Ezma the dog in it, knowing the paints are full of lead. The tan carpet was a tinted maroon, which I had slip/slapped for my background. Panicked, I knew that all the work John had already done wouldn't fix this, and the magic eraser could only do so much more. Luckily, from a past experience I won't mention, Debby had purchased some woolite oxy-clean stuff, and I quickly applied it to the carpet, knowing it would do the trick. It sure did, and I felt slightly better about it. It's almost even more of a self-portrait because it's been foolishly handled and already messed up a few times by yours truly. Sorry John.
Here's to patient parents,