Picking Paint Colors

Although my dad is semi-retired, he still seems to work an awful lot. One of his talents that is most in demand is painting. I don't recall a single residence that I've lived in that he hasn't done a lot of painting. Of course, I have referred him to many of my girlfriends so I don't think he'll ever run out of projects.

My friend Mickey and her husband are on a 10-day trip/cruise in Italy. (Have I mentioned how much I want to go to Italy? I am totally jealous.) It made sense to have some painting done while they're gone so she hired my dad and had some sample colors picked out.

Here's the scary part. She called me the night before they left and said, "If your dad has any questions about the colors, you have my proxy to change them." Such responsibility! And of course, he did have questions -- he didn't like one of the accent colors. So, I went over and I hated it too. I used my proxy and suggested a different color. I drove over the next day to see one wall, just to make sure it worked.

Today I'm going to stop by to see the finished project. She comes home in three days. What if she hates it? I think I'm developing an ulcer over this.

In our old house, there was a pink stripe in the carpeting around the great room. (It sounds awful but it was pretty and picked up the pink in the stained glass.) I had the brilliant idea to use some pink on the walls. I went away and came home to a room the color of Pepto Bismol. Since that experience, I've had serious doubts about my ability to pick paint colors.

My dad says it looks great. I sure hope she agrees. If not, I may max out a credit card and run away to Italy.

7:30 a.m.

The phone is supposed to ring at 7:30 a.m. It's supposed to be my friend, Patsy. We're supposed to be discussing our day and whatever bad outfit or bad hairdo is on the television.

Several years have passed since her unfair and untimely death. I still expect the phone call and then reality settles over me. Time is supposed to heal all wounds but to quote Dr. Phil, "Time heals nothing." Every once in a while, her husband calls at 7:30 a.m. When I answer the phone, he says, "It's still not Patsy."

I understand that we're all faced with the same fate. Time is precious and no one knows his or her own timeline. I don't understand why I had to lose this friend and other people seem to live forever. Willard Scott did his birthday gig on the Today Show recently and highlighted some woman who was celebrating her 102nd birthday. She quit smoking when she was 97-years old.

Patsy was a pipsqueak in stature and a giant in personality. She would rally her troops (girlfriends) and get us to do anything. She organized trips and sleepovers. She guilted us into a multitude of volunteer activities. She could rearrange the furniture in your house (and often did) while you took a bathroom break. She made me laugh, even in the most bizarre situations. Don't let anyone tell you that peer pressure ends in high school or college. She took peer pressure to a new level.

She was gifted at crafts; I am not. I cannot count the number of things I've painted because she told me to do so. Once we had a few drinks and cut another one of our girlfriend's hair. (Pats on one side -- me on the other.) She swears it was a great haircut.

The girlfriends were her pallbearers, an idea I plan to steal. Life moves on and somehow we pick ourselves up and carry on.

It's not logical but I still expect my morning phone call.