So, with the tub repairs complete, I'm now in the process of repairing the wall that was opened up for pipe access. It's in the linen closet, a space that hasn't been painted since the house was first built, as near as I can tell, after looking carefully at the walls. They're all scuffed, dingy, and covered with one coat of paint. Surprisingly, the closet walls are not covered with eight layers of wallpaper, like most every other wall in this house I haven't attacked.
Small miracles. I'll take them.
For some reason I am completely unable to fathom (there have been a lot of these recently, I notice), I've decided to paint the closet pink.
I'll let that statement soak in for a moment, give Mom a chance to recover, give B a chance to wake up from his fainting spell after having reading that sentence.
Yes, B, pink.
I must be growing old and soft out here in warm, sunny, California. Oh, wait, that's SOUTHERN California, not NORTHERN (read: cold, wet) California. Right. Chalk it up to changing tastes, and another part of hell freezing over, I guess. Much like the first part did when I chose strawberry ice cream over chocolate for the first time in my life about two months ago.
Some constants in life should never change.
My family understands all of this. My friends understand most of this. For everyone else, here's the part you may have been missing: I hate pink.
My hatred of pink is legendary. My mom painted my room pink when I was two years old. I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried, until she painted it blue. Dark blue. Dark blue and white, with multicolored carpeting and Raggety Ann and Raggety Andy curtains. The perfect room for a little girl.
I rarely had anything pink growing up, and essentially no pink clothing. Except that Cooperation shirt. But that was okay because it had a big yellow Big Bird on the front. Big and yellow? Trumps pink gingham every time.
So, yeah, the closet. It's pink. And not just any pink.
It's girlie pink.