Recently my good friend and neighbor, Melissa, got married and had her reception down the hall in her apartment. Her husband spent the past month painting my living room Benjamin Moore's Dill Pickle green (2147-40). For free. I couldn't figure out why he was so enthusiastic about it. Until the day of the reception--he wanted my house to serve as the smoking lounge for the partygoers.

When I found them there puffing away, I was glad to play along and even pulled out my dad's vintage Playboy ashtrays so they wouldn't ash on my plates. As the evening progressed, more and more people were streaming into my apartment--it was like the scene in La Dolce Vita when the whole cast is following Anita Ekberg around Rome. I decided to take advantage of the situation and ask everyone's opinion about how I should decorate the place. One of the guests--a Frenchman in a pin-striped suit (on crutches)--rose to the occasion. He was up and hobbling from room to room in no time.

I didn't realize how much I was exposing myself when I called attention to my space. After a bit of amateur psychoanalysis which I'll spare you, we started on the bedroom, where French guy decided to open my closet door. Everything came tumbling out. Literally. It was bad; then it got worse. When I turned off the light to show off my leafy views, French guy decided to go through my underwear drawer. Not in a pervy way, but I was mortified nonetheless. His explanation: "I'm trying to see how you live so I can help you arrange the furniture." How I live, indeed.

So at least I've got color to work with in the living room. And even if I do nothing else to it, it looks sooo much better. Thanks, Michael.