I've been bright pink since Sunday, and I can't even believe I'm telling you this story. But I seem to tell you everything, don't I?
On Sunday afternoon, I was sitting at my dining room table reviewing contracts and nibbling on some fruit with the French doors flung open and the breeze blowing in...when all of a sudden, I smelled the most awful chemical odor. I remember catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror when I stood up, and I could have been the picture in the dictionary under horrified's definition. Not cute.
I hate chemicals; I only use Mrs. Meyer's cleaning products to clean my house, and I'm pretty hippie chick with everything else. Once, when I was living with my ex-boyfriend of over seven years, I came home to find him spraying wasp spray.
I might have threatened to move out if he ever did that again. So yes, I am that girl.
Back to Sunday's smells. I searched high and low for its origin, but I couldn't find anything. Which is when I started to panic. I might have called the Fire Department. And the HazMat team might have arrived fifteen minutes later to search high and low for the odor's origin, but even those gorgeous boys couldn't find anything.
Until we stepped outside to see my neighbor spray-painting his birdhouse post. The breeze had blown that spray paint smell over the fence, through my back garden, and into my house.
Until we stepped outside to see my neighbor spray-painting his birdhouse post. The breeze had blown that spray paint smell over the fence, through my back garden, and into my house.
I felt awful. Absolutely awful. I still can't think of the incident without blushing. Those HazMat cuties were so nice to me, though, and assured me it was always better to be safe than sorry.
And then one asked me out.
Yep. Still blushing.
