A Bucket and a Brush

I am determined to paint my dining room today. I'm in my painting clothes. I have the paint. We picked a deep red. The adjoining rooms are an herby green and a golden yellow. I may paint over that green but I'll decide once the red is up.

We use that low-odor paint so it's not a big deal to paint even though it's about 4 degrees outside and we can't open windows -- just run the ventilation fans. The only one who notices the smell is the dog. It must be tough to be a dog. She gets blamed for every odd smell but she's the only one who knows what's truly going on in the smell department. Since she can't talk, she's got to take all of the blame. On the occasion of my painting, however, she's the only one who is really bothered and she can't complain.

My father would have a cardiac event at the thought of having his house done up in these colors. In their house, my Apple-a-Day red would have to be called Nitroglycerin Red. I think my mother might like it but they've always picked safe colors. There was the time in the late 80's when they went with a really pale mauve which turned out to be pink. I don't remember actually pointing this out to them, wanting to see them live on the wild side for once. However, in their next house (their current one), they went with a white. I think it was either antique or off.