Sunday, October 16, 2011


I was in my head all day yesterday.

I woke up at 10AM, ate some cereal, grabbed a can of Diet Dr. Pepper, and came back upstairs to the bed where I opened up my computer to write, and I didn't move—aside from the requisite bio breaks—for the next eleven hours. 

And then I was sick of myself. Sick of writing. Sick of being the gross little troll that didn't move all day. Sick of being in my head.

So I heaved my still-pajama-clad self from the bed and went looking for my husband.

Not watching TV. Not in his office. So I went downstairs. And when I reached the landing I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet. And the smell wasn't right. Chemicals. I walked slowly—a little scared—toward the garage. And as I walked closer, the chemical scent grew stronger.

Oh good grief, I thought, Is he sniffing paint 'cause I ignored him all day?

When I opened the door to the garage what I discovered was much worse than husband getting high.

He was painting his car. 


Sue said...


Sue said...

could we please have part II?

whitneyingram said...

OH my gosh. I need to know more! I am going to call you.

Rabid said...

What color?

Megan said...

Oh, it's actually not as bad as it sounds. (Much to the chagrin of the writer seeking material inside me.)

He had some special paint and was painting the Jeep hardtop and bumpers (black, Amber). So far as I can tell it looks just fine.

The problem is that my husband isn't, uh, the handiest of people (he really hates it when I say that), and I get a little freaked when he engages in do-it-yourselfery. For there have been times that the end result required a more expensive solution than just hiring someone in the first place.

So I had quite the head shake when I went into the garage and discovered the Jeep under plastic and taped off. What the . . . ? "Oh Mark," I said. "You're so special."