Subway art. It's everywhere, and I've been hankering for a little bit of subway in our new house. (Hah! You didn't even know we'd moved again, didja? I figured I'd bored you enough with my previous tales of packing and unpacking ---sorry for the WKRP reference; I'm a child of the '70s---and this time my sainted husband did the hard part while the kiddos and I were at camp. Thanks, Jess!)
Right, so I read the tutorial, I drooled over the pins on Pinterest, and I purchased my spray paint and vinyl sticker-letters. I trakced down some old shelves to upcycle, and I listed all of the places we've lived since Jess and I got married back in 1994. Four rentals, four of our own homes, from Miami to Rochester, to Des Moines, and now to Milwaukee. I primed, I measured, I stuck-on, I sprayed, and I peeled. And I realized I'd forgotten to include a residence. And that one of the addresses I'd listed was---well, not someplace we'd lived. There were fuzzy spots where the stickers hadn't adhered entirely. (Did I mention that I was doing this whole shindig after hours, whilst the wee folk slumbered? That's my excuse du jour, and I'm stickin' to it.) I attempted to repair my strokes of idiocy, and blundered once more---the spray paints I'd chosen were flat, and the acrylic "repair-paints" glossy. So I scrapped it, and started from scratch.
Those of you who know me well realize that I must have really wanted this subway art. Because I am not a "try, try, again" kind of girl; I'm more of a "what-ever---let's go have some chocolate," kind of girl. This time, though, I re-primed, re-measured, re-cut, re-stuck, and re-painted. (There was a little re-swearing in there, too, but as I said, the wee ones slumbered.) My diligence was rewarded.