An Ominous Tone

I handed the woman behind the paint counter my color choice and asked her for two gallons of interior semi-gloss.

"Do you mean quarts?"

"No. Gallons."

"You want two gallons of that?"

Since when do hardware store workers judge their customers' paint choices? It was certainly a bold color, "Ruby Red Ring," but I didn't think it merited the total disdain this hairy lipped woman showed it.

I smiled and told her my husband had specifically wanted this color.

"Oh, well that expains it," she sighed.

It threw me. I'd spent all of 2 minutes picking out the colors for the other rooms and was perfectly happy with the end results. But as my smock-clad nemesis behind the counter mixed up my latest paint request, I began to doubt myself. Five minutes later she pushed the two gallons across the counter at me. "Good luck" she said with a grimace.

By three this morning, I had finished the third coat and stood back to admire my handiwork. Our bedroom now looks like the site of a Vampire Wet t-shirt contest. That's not necessarily a bad thing as long as you're into the whole Clotted Blood theme. Now I just need to buy some accessories to complement the walls. I'm thinking a big gargoyle statue on the dresser, a rat cage hanging from the ceiling and a charming arts and crafts desk made out of a coffin. Spike loves it. But I can't get over the feeling that we are both going to die in this room. Gruesome, violent deaths.