Nothing Happens on the Weekend

It's the weekend—and a long one at that. And nothing happens on the weekend. So I decide I'll paint. I set up and pick a starting point, but there's no wall that's ready. They all need sanding and more spackle and smoothing. I'm sneezing anyway. I'm a doer, so I continue looking for stuff I can putter with. I paint a stripe of the new color on the back wall. Ack! It's the exact value of the previous color but a tad bluer. I don't mind it, but it's not exactly it. Maybe once the whole room is painted? I go back to bed.

On Sunday, I paint the back door with the semi-glass version of the same paint. Ack! It's baby blue. No, no, no.

Marty and I discuss the color on Monday. He points to a pale orange shade in the dining room table and tells me that's the color he picks. If I'm buying new paint, it's his choice. Peach? Peach?!?! What decade is this, anyway?!

If it's a choice between beach and peach, it's beach all the way.

You might wonder why I bought all my paint before testing different colors in the room. Well, I guess the answer is: I'm not new. I've been painting—personally and professionally—for about 30 years. I've had more than 60 paint colors in five different homes. I've had eight—count 'em, eight!—paint colors in the same living room. (Yes, it looked like Fruit Stripe gum.) (That room is now Ralph Lauren Suede in brown, and believe me: the complaints have been pouring in since the first day.

[to be continued]