|Hello, 1941. How are you today?|
In conjunction with my calico rose wallpaper, I feel like this paint-by-number has officially transported my bathroom to a farmhouse in the 1940s. Hey, I don't mind. I'm more than happy to hang wash on the line (except I can't because one of my neighbors has had the same blue sheet hanging out there for a week), and to shell peas on the front porch, (I don't grow peas), and tie my hair in a kerchief (if I only knew how), and sew my clothes (not even close), and wear my husband's work boots to the chicken shed (I don't actually have a husband).
I will not, however, pluck a chicken. Any breed of foul really. I don't think I'd like the sound of the feathers being pulled out. I've never plucked a chicken, or listened as anyone plucked a chicken, but I'm fairly certain I know what it would sound like and I want none of that in my 1940s bathroom. I could maybe kill a chicken though. Maybe? As long as I didn't have to do any de-feathering because that would be gross.
|Now why didn't they paint number eighty?|
I suppose now would be the time to say that the paint-by-number is probably circa 1960-70 rather than 1940. If this really were a 1940s farmhouse, the paint-by-number would be a picture cut from Saturday Evening Post or something. See how neatly I've romanticized the past?