Tie A White Ribbon Around The Blue Box

The circus left town and the tent went with it. I painted it to oblivion. Martha Stewart is applauding all the while giving me pointers on how to pack a suitcase. For some RANDOM unconnected reason. And Ringling Brothers is homeless. But that's ok because I have never liked clowns AT ALL. I see nothing wrong with doing a little good deed. Operation Save The Children From Nightmares I Suffered As A Child When My Parents Took Me To Circus World And Painted My Face And Scarred Me For Life.

But first: You want an update on my love life? Well, it's summer so there are many boys of summer. (And those who have seen a lot of me this summer, Mav and Dear Prudence, are like, "Chickie, you got no boy." Well, they'd be right. But there is that guy on the metro I see every morning. We are going to get married.) But, really, it is so fucking hot in DC right now a boy on my arm would be one layer too many. In fact, right now I am sitting in my office and I am wondering if I can take off my shirt.

(Holy Record Tangents: Two paragraphs in and I have already managed to mention the weather (small talk!); my lack of a love life; the fact that I hate clowns (Hate!); a Martha Stewart episode I watched the other day where she had Matt Lauer on to show us how to pack a suitcase which was really disguised as: "Step off, Matt, let me show you how it's done," and then she turned to the audience and said, "Dumb Matt doesn't know how to pack. Ha ha ha," while Matt sat in the corner really no more animated than her cooktop; AND gratuitous nudity. You must know, I really tried my damndest to sneak mention of Willem Dafoe in there.

Mind you, this is a post about painting my bathroom.)

Soooo, back to the intended post.

This weekend, I performed a critical step in Operation Dismantle Circus Tent: Die Die Die My Darlin. I got out my painter's pants, brushes, and tape and transformed my lovely little bathroom into a Big Blue Tiffany Box.

But first, that consisted of a lovely stop to the Home Depot which I have come to loathe. Seriously, I need to find the Lowe's. Because the Home Depot is dirty and nobody is really helpful. Nor cute. If I have to be among sawdust and tools, for the love of god give me some hunky eye candy. Otherwise it is just sawdust and tools and these pretty eyes will glaze over until you flash something shiney like that sparkly little chandelier over there. Yep, in the Home Depot. For the love of girlie.

But I got out of the Home Depot with my Behr Embellished Blue, primer, and other sundries that the Guy At The Paint Counter, who was well aware of what I was up against, swore would be the weapons needed to undertake such a heroic feat. Dragon slayers be damned. I totally got him on board with my Die Circus Tent pitch. He wants Before and After photos. Who knew? Home Depot, my cheerleader. Perhaps I shan't give up on them.

So I did the shopping one night last week and Saturday was to be The Day. But first, Friday happy hour.

Cut to Saturday morning, the phone rings. Its Mav.

"What are you doing?"

"Taping the circus tent. Remember. It's the day the circus LEFT town."

"I know, but after last night, I thought you'd be on the couch for the day." [Mav and Boa Vocabulary: "on the couch" = hungover all day.]

But see? Nothing was going to get in my way. I told her to be worthwhile too and study for her umpteenth bar exam. Mav's tagline: Barred in eight states! Not to be confused with "banned in eight states." Semantics.

So I spent the morning and very early afternoon covering up the fugly stripes with a solid and vibrant color. And, at some point, I sat in the paint can. Hey, every slayer needs a battle scar.

And when it is all said and done, she looks pretty. My eyes get all starry-eyed when I enter my bathroom like I should be getting some pretty silver bean or tear drop or rather, The Tiffany Atlas® pendant. Diamonds, .18 carat total weight, color grade G, clarity grade VS; eighteen karat white gold. 16" long. Not that I really, really want that or anything.

Then to celebrate, Dear Prudence popped open a bottle of bubbly in what we are dubbing the Girl's Dorm, and then we ventured out in the 'hood, where I met someone I am giving the longest name possible: Honey, You Are Going To Drive Me To Drinking If You Don't Stop Driving That Hot Rod Lincoln. Sigh. And then I texted Mav: I'm in love with a Lincoln. And she got it because she replied with 'how we talk': As in Abe?

Here's to passing tests, the Girls' Dorm, guys with 18-word nicknames, other guys, champagne, and one little blue box - white ribbon and all - that you can actually shit in.

[The author promises that no tigers or elephants or tamers were hurt during the Circus Tent Death. Although she is mum on those damn creepy clowns.]