Curse of the Colorful Guy

It’s a lot easier to give people directions to my house now. It’s the only one in the neighborhood with bright orange French doors.

They weren’t always so eye-popping. In fact, they were quite muted, but they were also leaking. I summoned my dad over to take a look. He spent hours repairing them and left a note with very specific instructions, “pick up white semi-gloss oil-based paint.”

“White,” Kim reminded me, as my son and I prepared to leave for the paint store.

Somewhere between home and the paint store things went horribly awry. White seemed too boring. A colorful guy like me craves more. I decided to go with terra cotta to match the bricks. “Clay pot” seemed close enough. And why not go full-out glossy?

Ever the good soldier, Dad painted my doors completely in glossy “clay pot,” which will henceforth be known as “burn out your retinas” orange.

My wife hates it. My neighbors can’t leave their houses without sunglasses. My dad refuses to invest another six hours in the project. Finally, if I ever try to sell the house, my pool of buyers is now restricted to the colorblind.

I know what you’re thinking. “It can’t be that bad.” If you saw a picture, all your doubts would be removed. I’d attach one, but I’m afraid the results would be more damaging to computer networks worldwide than the conficker worm.

There is this piece of good news, however. You can now see my house from outer space. Just be sure to cover those retinas first.