I think I already told you that I'm a frustrated artist. I don't think I've picked up a paintbrush in years. Which is why I don't quite understand how I managed to spend last Monday painting a mural on my pantry doors.
It had been planned, sort of. I'd seen a beautiful mural in a house tour a few years back, so the idea was percolating somewhere below the surface. You know how you see something, and you say "I could do that." Dangerous thought.
My pantry used to be a bedroom closet with sliding doors. When we took down a wall to expand the kitchen, we turned the closet into a pantry, fully expecting to replace the doors with something a bit more decorative -- maybe some beautiful architectural salvage.
But then a woman with a paintbrush happened along. Moi. My husband, bless his heart, came home from a meeting in Chicago late Monday night, took one look at it, and said "Wow, that looks great!" Then he saw my hesitation, and asked, "Do you like it?"
Honestly, I'm not sure yet. I think it will grow on me. I think.