The entire neighborhood complained for years when the apartment building fell into disrepair. White paint peeled from the walls and paint flakes littered the sidewalk.
The building sold. The neighborhood cheered, until the new owners painted it bubble gum pink.
The neighborhood protested the pink. The owners posted their sign prominently in a discrete location on the main entrance. ‘It’s Pink, Get Over It!’
It was the shot heard ‘round the neighborhood. After many protests, the owners compromised and made the building two-tone with white trim. The sign disappeared from the front door.
“Fannie, I’m going up to Seattle, do you want to come?” asked Richard.
“Are you driving by the pink apartment building?”
“Of course,” he said.
May 1st brought warmth, flowers, bees and thoughts of barbecuing.
“Fannie, what do you think about fixing up the old picnic table, it could use a good coat of paint.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
“Let’s get some paint,” said Richard.
“May I help you?” asked the young man behind the paint counter.
“Yes, we need a gallon of reddish-brown exterior paint,” said Richard.
“Follow me,” he said leading us to the paint chips. “We have several shades of reddish-brown to choose from. Which one would you like?”
“Oh, Richard, this one looks perfect. What do you think?”
“That’s it,” he said handing the chip to the young man.
“Do you have any more shopping to do?” he asked. “I can get this mixed and have it ready by the time you’re done.”
“That’d be great,” said Richard.
We finished our shopping, picked up our paint and checked out.
We did not get around to painting the table until May 31st.
Bunny dropped by.
When we opened the can of paint, a lovely shade of hot pink greeted us.
“Richard, this does not jive with our reddish-brown paint chip.”
Bunny said, “Whoa, honey, that’s pink.”
“Fannie, I am not going to wait any longer to paint this table. Besides, it’s pink, get over it,” he said with a laugh.
With each dip of the brush, Richard said, “it’s pink, get over it.”
We laughed until tears streamed down our faces and neither of us could paint in a straight line.
After ten minutes, Bunny said with annoyance, “Darlings, there is something seriously wrong with you all.”
Richard’s birthday appeared on the calendar. Still hung up on the pink paint, I wrapped Richard’s birthday present in a hot pink bag and after searching found a birthday card with a cow wearing a hot pink sombrero.
I signed his card, ‘Happy Birthday, Richard, it’s pink, get over it. Love, Fannie’.
How could he want for anything more?
The day after the party, I wrote out all of Richard’s thank you notes.
Of course, I found a pink gel pen and used it while writing the thank you note to me.
Richard thanked me for my creativity in wrapping, the generosity of the gift and all the wonderful years we have had together and a promise to wear the jeans every day until they could walk away on their own.
He signed it along with the rest and happened to glance up and read the note.
“Hey,” he said looking hoodwinked. “What’s all this crap about?”
“Crap,” I said with a smile, “what crap? Weren’t those the exact words you would have used had you written it?”
“Until the jeans walk away by themselves and in pink?” said Richard staring me down.
“It’s not working is it?” he asked leaning back in his chair.
“No, but I want you to know I shall cherish the card always.”
“You do that,” he said. “You know, we still have some of that pink paint left, what if we use it for a tombstone for Halloween?”
“That would get the neighbors talking,” I said with a laugh.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
In celebration of Halloween, we covered the yard in tombstones.
The neighbors followed the self-guided tour. Above the laughter we could hear voices saying, “It’s pink, get over it!”