My little house in Columbia's version of "Pleasantville" needed some tender love and care. The bare walls were beginning to mock me. Every day after nursing school classes, I'd come home to the beige naked walls staring back at me and declaring -- "You can't do it all." Oh, I can't? Guess not.
So some time passed after finals before I got enough energy to even consider doing something with the little place. Consider? That I could do. It took minimal effort in between my naps.
Then my mother arrived.
All that goes into hanging pictures, the fussing, the aggravation, the hammering -- we were doing it all. So what if I'm 25 and still need my mother to help me with hanging pictures? Trust me, for those of you who know my mother -- this is something I must go through to avoid the impending sighs of disappointment if I attempted to hang anything myself.
After a few hours of emotional turmoil involving nails and a hammer:
Check out the great accent cocker spaniel
I'm thrilled. Couldn't be happier. But what is even better is the fact that she approves. Now there will be no conversations involving, "I just don't know where you failed to learn how to hang pictures... or even decorate for that matter."
Who am I kidding? There will be no conversations of such in that room. That was just the living room.
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