Can't see me! I have camo.
This past Sunday, we decided to get up and go to the freak show.  Most people refer to it as the Flea Market.  But, when admission is free and you actually can see a dog-faced boy, or two, it's a freak show.  While the people weren't as exciting as they have been in the past, we did see an odd thing or two.  My personal favorite was the  bright orange hummer in the parking lot, complete with camo.  What we didn't find were lamps, or anything else that is on my family room wish list.
Also on today's list of things to do: prime the walls in the family room.  We decided on the Kilz brand clean start with no VOC.  One coat was enough to cover the drywall and barely smelled at all.  The only bad part was that it was thicker than regular primer.  Well, that and the King decided to 'help' with the painting.  He did well relieving me when I needed a break.  Then, as I was using a brush to get into the stubborn corners etc, he decided to help some more, and clean up.  I really should have known that I should have given him explicit instructions when he said he was going to start the clean up.  Instead I went blissfully into a corner and back to painting.  When I finally finished up, I was taking my supplies to the kitchen and passed by the guest bath and there was the King, elbows deep in paint and paint stick pieces in the bathroom sink.  The very shallow, very black marble, scalloped edge sink.   I wasn't sure if I should have laughed or cried when I asked, 'what the hells are you doing?!'  He looks at me with this satisfied smile and claims to be 'cleaning up'.
There is now more paint than I've ever seen anywhere splashed all over the bathroom, and a pool of it on the family room floor (thankfully we plastic covered it) from the roller he forgot about.  I explain to him how to actually clean this up, and send him to the kitchen with the roller as I start to clean the other pieces of the paint stick, and the sink, mirror, walls...etc.  When I was nearly finished cleaning up the disaster that became the guest bathroom, the King stuck his head back in, smiled at me and said, 'To be fair, you know paint hates me', as though this would stop me from daydreaming about painful ways to kill him as I scoured a little more paint off the bathroom.
Later, as I'm making dinner he wanders back in the kitchen with this silly grin on his face and proclaims, 'I have paint on my hands, my arms, my legs and my shoes.  The best part about that?  I wasn't even wearing shoes!'
*Not to scale
I can only imagine trying to explain to the nice police officers, as they are loading me into the squad car why it's perfectly fine to have strangled the husband, Homer Simpson style.  But officers, we live in a republic, we have no monarch, so it's was completely fine to kill the King.
I think in the future, I'll refrain from letting him 'help' me paint.  I just have to convince him that the paint stick is not the royal scepter and all will be well.
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