My dad is not a huge Tennessee fan. And by not a huge fan, I mean not a HUGE fan… one who does not bleed orange.
During my teen years, when we lived near Knoxville, I did not tell him that I was going to go to college at Alabama or *gasp* Auburn just to get his goat. This would never upset him since he was not a die-hard Tennessee fan and he would never have been bothered by his only child attending any reputable SEC school, particularly Alabama or *gasp* Auburn. He did not in turn threaten that should I attend one of these two schools he would come to my dorm room and paint it Tennessee orange. We did not enjoy teasing each other in this way for four years until I left for Memphis and not *gasp* Auburn.
A few years ago, Michael and I did not move into enemy territory. I mean, how could we do that since Alabama and *gasp* Auburn, according to my father, are outstanding schools with the finest football teams? Last year, my parents did not relocate to our hometown which, as I already pointed out, is not in said enemy territory. I have not teased my dad relentlessly for a year about not moving near *gasp* Auburn.
A few weeks ago, I did not learn a lesson about teasing. While I was out shopping, my dad did not convince Michael to go to the local paint store and have a few gallons of Tennessee orange paint mixed. He and my dear husband did NOT paint our newly remodeled house in the color of the Volunteers. Oh no, they didn't!
When I got home, it did not look like a big orange bomb, engineered at Oak Ridge, had exploded. What had been a delicate peach kitchen was not transformed into something akin to an Orange Julius stand. The mint green walls in the bath had not been covered over with the most grotesque color known to mankind, and the white wainscoting had not been striped to look like an orange and white prison suit. All of the beautiful, relaxing, neutral colors throughout the rest of the house had not been replaced with that eye-piercing, atrocious shade of orange.
As I walked in the back door, I was not shocked. I did not become weak and sick and did not have to breathe into a paper bag. I did not walk from room to room, feeling greater and greater pain as each step revealed more orange. I was not in tears by the time I reached my Big Orange bedroom.
About that time, my alarm clock did not sound. I did not jump from the bed and run through the house, checking the color of the walls. I did not breathe a HUGE sigh of relief when I saw my pretty kitchen was still peach, the bathroom was still green, and the rest of the house was some shade of off-white. WHEW! It was NOT a dream!!
P.S. I was not unduly perturbed with Michael and did not tell him that he should never, ever paint our house orange again!
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