Why I never want to see Pink again

Is it true that no good deed goes unpunished? Today I go into the studio to dye up some silks for my son's preschool class. I'm going to bring them to school on Monday and do some fun activities with the kids. I'm also donating the silks to the school. So, with about a 2-hour window in our busy weekend, I step into the studio and get four mixing cups ready. Into the first goes 1/2 T of powdered fuchsia dye and a just few drops of water so I can paste it up. I put my long mixing stick into the cup and for some reason decide to get the filter ready before I mix the dye. My elbow hits the mixing stick and stick, cup, and a huge messy half-powder, half-goo wad of fuchsia dye explodes on the floor, cabinets, buckets, my leg, my bare feet, and my favorite capris. How can half a tablespoon be so big?

Now, the dye is completely non-toxic and safe ... well, safe except when in powdered form, when, like any fine particulate, it is a terrible lung irritant. I of course am wearing my mask, but I fly to the door and slam it shut so that no unsuspecting family member happens upon the Pink Parlor. I start cleaning it up with towels, but every single tiny salt-grain sized speck of dye spreads as I hit it with the damp rag, leaving a long dark pink line on the floor. Fifteen minutes later, I am not sure whether I am cleaning it up or just spreading it around. 8 very pink rags, half a roll of paper towels, and half an hour later, the studio is white again. I am exhausted, frustrated, and pink.

OK, looking at the bright side: none of the silks were harmed. Nothing in the studio is permanently pink, except for the rags which were rags anyway. My favorite capris were brown to begin with (reference yesterday's post about my exciting wardrobe) and are soaking now, so they probably won't show any evidence of the Fuchsia Fiasco.

I am ready for a glass of wine. Make it white, please.