The other night my friend Kevin called to tell me he's flying in for a visit. He has boundless energy and a brilliant sense of humor, and is one of my favorite people. When I heard that he was coming, I decided to redecorate the guest room.
The first person I called was Betty Crockpot. "I need help," I cried. "Kevin will be here for a few days, and the guest room looks terrible."
"Oh," she said, "am I going to see him? We had so much fun the last time he was here."
"Are you going to invite us for dinner again?" I asked. Complete silence on the line so I moved on to my decorating problem. "What should I do about those horrible mirrored closet doors?"
"Those doors are atrocious, but I hate to see you spend a fortune getting new doors. Why don't you paint them?"
"Paint the mirrors? Are you nuts?"
"I'm not nuts. Think out of the box for a change," she said. "Use your imagination. If you don't want to paint them, how about applying fabric over them? Or do a collage of photos of yourself, like a historic review of before and after."
I was appalled. "That sounds tacky. Paint the mirrors? Photos of myself? Put fabric on them? Do you think I'm some kind of hippie?"
Betty Crockpot got hysterical laughing. "Well, the way you've been dressing lately, you're kind of an older hippie, aren't you?"
Then she got back to the point. "Forget about how you're dressing. We need to figure out the closet door problem. If paint doesn't appeal to you, why don't you hang beads across the mirrors, like we did in the olden days."
"Olden days is right," I groaned. With the phone in my hand, I took another look at the ghastly mirrors. "I'm standing in the guest room right now, and I hate to admit it but I think paint might work."
Next I called Claude. She immediately suggested we go shopping, since that's her solution to the world's problems. Her input for hiding the mirrors was, "Just put up a rod and we can hang a shower curtain, maybe one of those with little fishes and seahorses on it."
"Very funny," I said, aware of Claude's outrageous sense of humor. By this time, my sense of humor was nonexistent. I was kind of mad at Claude for her silly suggestion, but I was in her car and she was driving so there wasn't much I could do but snort.
"Lighten up," Claude said as we walked into the store. With her usual exquisite taste, Claude picked out the perfect dresser, end tables and lamps. While I was in a sort of stupor, she called my name. "Look at this," she said, gesturing toward a huge metal chicken riding a bicycle.
"I love it. I have to have it," I exclaimed.
But none of this shopping solved the mirrored closet doors problem. My dear friends and their ideas left me even more perplexed. With Kevin's visit a week away I needed an immediate remedy.
My handyman, Bruce Almighty, was scheduled to come over in a couple of days so I had to make a decision. Weighing all of the bizarre options, I begrudgingly leaned toward painting the mirrors. It seemed the easiest fix, and what was the worst that could happen? After all, I had the hanging hippie beads or the seahorse shower curtain as backup.
Did I mention Kevin is an interior designer in New York City? I can hear him as he walks into the guest room, "What in the world were you thinking?"
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