I tried to spray paint the baskets on Sunday.
By the end of it, I was covered in spray paint, so was the tarp, so was almost every part of my work space--except for the baskets.
Something was freaky about that spray paint can. It didn't so much want to spray. Mostly, it wanted to drip and expose my fingers to a dangerous-yet-unidentified substance that was icy cold. It was probably deadly. I'm still waiting for my fingers to shatter.
I sprayed, failed, gave up, and then spent another hour exposing myself to more hazardous chemicals as I attempted to remove the spray paint from my skin.
And then I looked at the baskets and realized the spray paint was not sticking to the surface, even though the baskets had been previously painted. And the spray paint said it would stick to painted surfaces.
It stuck a little. A bit. But not enough for me to be done in one coat, and realizing that made me very angry for some reason, so I sloshed more mineral spirits on my hands, finished cleaning up, and went inside. And cried, because I was angry, so, you know, angry crying.
I then decided to name my memoir: "Another Craft Project Ends in Tears." I figured it would be a good name, as it is both descriptive and accurate.
Tonight I have to stop by Walmart for more paint (because my can really WAS faulty, I looked it up. It was a relief finding out it wasn't just me) and try again. .I think I will beg help from Dad, since he can spray paint well, probably an indicator of some kind of misspent youth.
It is a pity Walmart does not sell dignity, but that is more of a Target thing.