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Tarred and hilarious: a foundation fiasco
Lessons from a day with dad
You haven’t worked with tar before, have ya?
I was picking out a brush to apply tar to the foundation.
The brush? It doesn’t have to be anything at all.
I was being picky about my ‘tar brush’. I love buying paint brushes. Whether for cutting with a two incher or painting masks with various fine art brushes collected through they years, I tend to be picky about my brushes.
These tar brushes were junk. They had uneven bristles. The handles were loose. I didn’t like any of them. They reminded me of tiny loosely bristled push brooms.
You really haven’t worked with tar before, have ya? My dad was laughing at this point. Once you have that shit all over it? You won’t give a damn what you’re putting it on with.
I laughed and shook my head grateful for the advice.
I’ve had a love hate relationship with asking my dad’s opinion about stuff. When I didn’t listen to his suggestions, he seems to get upset. These days he just shrugs, thinking about things a bit longer, and then comes back with a smile and support.
My dad has been ageing with grace, generosity, and kindness. We’re getting closer all of the time. The status games, so hard wired within us all seem to have faded between us for the most part. I’m really happy spending time with him.
Get two brushes. You’re going to want to have two.
I hesitated. I didn’t want two of these cheap, ugly, graceless brushes.
Naw. I’ll just get one. I can bag it in between jobs.
He smiled, shrugged and gave a little laugh.
You really haven’t worked with tar before, have ya? Suit yourself.
Later that day I got to work applying the tar to the foundation.
By the end of it, there was tar on the brush, tar on my face, tar through my pants and on my ass, in my hair, on my fingers (despite gloves) and even mashed into the hair of my armpits.
Some tar even found it’s way to the foundation.
I was sticky and miserable.
Worst of all?
The tar smell.
It lingered on my clothes.
It lingered in the air.
It sat there, all tar like and goopy.
I put the brush in a plastic bag.
It stunk to high heaven days later.
It found its way into the trash.
I may have to get a new one.
Don’t tell my dad.