Don't anyone breathe a word, but Mrs. P is under the assumption that I agreed to the house remodeling just so we could have something nice to call home. Nope. I figured a few grand would be a fair price to pay for a cessation in sisterly spats and for the possibility of seeing a clean bedroom just once in the lifetime of any one of my three children. AND I figured maybe if we laid out enough dough and fixed up the kitchen, too, Mrs. P might even decide to cook occasionally.

By being given their own bedrooms, it has been made abundantly clear to us that neither one of our daughters will ever save us one penny on college tuition by being given a full scholarship in interior decorating. Won't happen.

Martha Stewart would go crazy if she walked into either of our girls' bedrooms. She would be rendered speechless and catatonic. Anyone have Martha's phone number?

Our 10 year olds idea of decorating is to prop up a long division workbook on her window ledge. Arithmetic as art. Ya gotta love it. As if that weren't enough, she decided that moving into a new bedroom required her to establish a new means of communications with the outside world.

Doors are really very important to kids. They give kids privacy and allow them to finally say to other members of their family, "I'm busy now, don't bother me." With this in mind, our 10-year-old hung a small wicker basket on her bedroom door.

OK, the wicker basket wasn't actually hung in the truest sense of the word. She had pushed a push pin into the door, and gently laid the handle of the wicker basket on top of the push pin, insuring that everytime she opened her door, the basket would immediately fall to the floor. <continued below>

Attached to the basket was a notice that read, "If you need to leave me anything or tell me somethin', please put it in the basket."

The wicker basket was strategically placed just out of the reach of The Boy. She really doesn't have that much communication with her older sister -- nothing that can't be handled in a five-minute argument about a hairbrush -- and she talks to us ALL the time, so it's really unclear for whom the basket was intended.

The big winner in this new room ordeal was our teen-age daughter, who inherited what had previously been our living room. She doesn't have a door yet, which is just killing her, but she has the biggest bedroom in the house. She also picked up a few really nice pieces of furniture. A large couch. A coffee table. An end table and a desk. All furniture that had once been in the living room. Now all hers. Her way of thanking us?"

"When are ya'll gonna get rid of all this stuff in here so I can blow up my inflatable couch?"

It should come as no surprise that our teen-ager's idea of decorating will not make her a rich woman either. Her idea of decorating her bedroom is to plaster hundreds of pictures of Ricky Martin on her walls and ceiling. Her idea of color coordination is using a push-pin that is the same color of the shirt Ricky has on in the picture.

"That's NOT true," our teen-ager protested at dinner one night when we were jabbing her about her lack of decorative ability.

"It IS true," Mrs. P said. "Decorating a room should consist of more than pictures torn out of Teen People magazine."

Our daughter was armed and ready to fire back.

"Oh, and I suppose you think The Boy's room is cute? He has Hot Wheels and baseball pennants hanging on his walls. So what's the difference?"

It was my turn to jump in.

"The difference, young lady, is that putting Hot Wheels on display and hanging baseball pennants on your walls is a part of growing up. A BIG part. It's a guy thing. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Did you put baseball pennants on your wall, Dad?" our daughter asked, knowing the answer. "Well did you?"

I was silent. She got more to the point.

"I have the only dad in the world who had red, white and blue wallpaper, and a fringed vest and bell bottom jeans to complement his room decor. I've seen pictures, Dad. They weren't PRETTY pictures."

"Hey, I was SIXTEEN during the Bicentennial. We were SUPPOSED to look that way. Besides, if you want to talk bizarre room decor, I think all of us here know who was the worst," I said.

Mrs. P looked out the window. "What a beautiful day," she said. "And look at all the hummingbirds."

"Y'know, your mother decorated her bedroom walls by tacking up really cool album covers by groovy people like the Partridge Family and David Cassidy and Bobby Sherman. C'mon get happy!!"

"Who's Bobby Sherman?" our teen-ager asked.

Mrs. P shot a hairy eyeball glance my direction.

"Well it's better than your pictures of Farrah Fawcett and that red-headed girl from "Eight is Enough" that you had such a crush on. You told me you had their pictures everywhere. My God, I married a stalker!"

I'd had enough.

"Well, maybe I was like most teen-age boys back then. Maybe I did have a healthy infatuation or two in my time ... BUT AT LEAST I NEVER HUNG THE BRADY BUNCH ON MY WALL!"

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