It also did not fit with my vision of the house. So when the painters were there, I kindly asked them to remove it and put it in the garage for me. After watching a painter almost fall to his death in our foyer trying to take it down, they determined they were going to need scaffolding. So after several hours, much swearing, and lots of elbow grease, the chandelier is now in the garage. And there are no dead painters in our foyer.
And I've been painting the creature since Saturday. After washing it down with a combination of water and rubbing alcohol (professional tip from Jose the Painter), I managed to get most of the dirt off of it. Brian asked what my game plan was for painting the chandelier, to which I replied, "Paint the hell out of it." Which is exactly what I'm doing. I had purchases three cans of spray paint and promptly went through all three of them in one day.
I had to stop at Home Depot (for the 300th time this week) to pick up more spray paint. I don't know if spray paint is always under lock and key, but it is here in Vegas. I had to get the nice guy in the orange vest to open the cabinet for me. He gave me a once over and promptly handed me my cans.
"Aren't you going to ask for my ID?" I asked, hoping I didn't look like a walking stereotype in my yoga pants and flip-flops as I pushed the stroller, sipping my Starbucks (shaken iced-tea, black, two Splendas).
"Nah," he said, shaking his head.
'Really?" I asked. "Because I might do something bad with this paint. Like, go tagging or something. You really don't know." (tagging is graffiti, for those of you who don't speak Juvenile.) I was teased him at this point, and he smiled at me.
"No ma'am," he replied. "Because most taggers don't purchase paint in "'oil-rubbed bronze.'"
Oh. He has a point. So much for my stab at delinquency.