Chapter Eight: You Want to Put That Where?

Chapter 8: You want to put that where?

     You can learn a lot about your significant other when you decorate a house together. Forget about hiring a professional. Why lose the opportunity to learn about your partner’s aesthetic vision and skill?

Rob and I painted every room of our house after we moved in. We were frequent visitors of the paint department at the home improvement stores. We knew the Home Depot employees by name. We had Lowes on speed dial. Like children in a candy store, we stood before a dizzying array of hundreds of colors aquiver with excitement!

“Ooh, look at this one!”

“Wow! Check out this one.”

We generally agreed on colors. Except for one I chose, one shade brighter than Ty-D Bowl blue. He cringed as I planned to paint our entire family room with it.

Ever diplomatic, he said, “Why don’t you paint one small area and see how you like it?”

Thank goodness for Rob's foresight. The color was hideous. I painted a single interior door, then stepped back and grimaced.

“Now what?” I whined.

“It’s not so bad. Leave it.”

     So, the can of Ty-D Bowl blue was banished to the basement. We hung blue drapes and accents to the room. We hung framed art with nautical themes on the door. It was known simply as the “blue door.” It caused quite a stir with friends and family who chuckled at my expense. My reputation for choosing colors was tarnished forever.

     In my defense, there have been a few odd items that Rob wanted to add to our decor, such as the huge paper balloon ribbed lamp. He was thrilled when he brought it home. It was long and white and reminded me of an insect in a cocoon.

“There’s a rip in it. Is it going to leave the larval stage?” I asked.

“Where do you think we should put it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said with a frown. “In the basement?” Rob knew what that meant. I never saw the lamp again.

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     Maybe couples should fill out a questionnaire at the beginning of their relationship. It would make living together a heck of a lot easier.

     If we had filled out such a questionnaire, we’d have realized that Rob says ‘foot stool’ and I say ‘ottoman,’ or that he refers to a ‘colander’ as a ‘strainer.’ That what he calls a ‘buggy’ is what I call a ‘shopping cart.’

     I’d have also known that Rob detests being hot and that, in the middle of the night, he’s given to thrashing against sheets if they gather around his neck, so that his bedmate is longing to take a seasickness pill. I would have known that Rob wouldn’t allow clean socks to touch the floor without a slipper or a shoe protecting them. And he leaves trails of candy wrappers and chocolate bits all over the house (I have found them melted onto his checkbook.)  

     He would have learned much too. It wouldn’t come as a surprise that I am always cold and only require a mild breeze when the temperature hits eighty-five. I constantly straighten bathroom towels and place mats. I don’t believe pets should lie on light-colored rugs. He would have found out well in advance that I am oblivious to tire tread until they are bald. If such a questionnaire existed, we could have prevented the following conversations:

Him:  “Could you fold my socks instead of rolling and tucking them in a ball?”

Her:  “What’s the difference?”

Him:  “It ruins the sock. You know, stretches it out. Also we shouldn’t use so much bleach. It’s bad for the elastic.”

Her:  “Where is all the Tupperware that was in the cabinet? Haven’t you been taking  

          leftovers to work?”

Him:  “Yeah. I throw them out when I’m done.”

Her:  “You throw out our Tupperware containers?!”

Him:  “It’s not real Tupperware. They’re Chinese take-out containers!”

Him:  “Where’s my glass of milk that was on the counter?”

Her:  “Oops, I just dumped it down the sink.”

Him:  “I just poured that!”

Her:  “Oh. I wondered why the glass was cold.”

     On second thought, maybe a questionnaire would prevent marriages and domestic unions. Maybe these discoveries should come slowly, over time. By the time you had it all figured out, it would be ten years down the road. And who wants to spend another decade learning a new partner’s quirks?

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