We are in the middle of having the inside of our house painted and for me it is whatever comes ahead of Greek tragedy in terms of fear and loathing. I have a long-standing aversion to having work done in the house, I don’t know why, maybe I once saw a lamp dropped on its head as an infant. Either way it’s just another thing to add to the list for my weekly talks with the Wise Man. I have no idea where this man and his hourly intuitiveness live but he will probably be able to add a tastefully furnished den when he’s done with me and my list.
My husband has been suggesting (begging, pleading, bargaining) for the house to be painted since we got married and he moved in six and a half years ago and I finally stopped stalling and arranged for a painter, a very talented craftsman who is related to me by in-law marriage which I hoped would alleviate (some of) my anxiety. The day he arrived to survey our surroundings he asked when our last paint job was. I did some quick math and realized that if we bought the house twenty years ago that was our last paint job. My painter whistled softly and said, “That was a great paint job. Your house still looks decent.” Which made me think, “Shit, why don’t you just go away then?” But that would mean I’d have to make up a story for my husband and maybe Judaism doesn’t believe in hell but I sure do so we agreed he would start this past Monday.
In many domestic relationships it is the woman who chooses the decor. The guy makes his preferences known, like no flowered upholstery or cute pictures of animals, but he’s more invested in the outside stuff. Guys buy the snowblowers. Not so much the towels. I’ve seen guys shopping with their wives at Bed Bath & Beyond and they’ll pick up a green throw rug and show it to their beloved who responds, “I read that beige is the new green” while she tosses a tan rug in their cart. The guy shrugs and they amble over to the shower curtains while he’s thinking, “This is time lost at Home Depot.”
My husband has definite opinions on home decor. He once told me a story about his late wife and how she used to decide to rearrange the furniture when she was feeling stressed. He wouldn’t know about it and when he came home from work and the house was dark he’d walk into the sofa because it never used to be there. This struck me as a revealing domestic anecdote and I committed selected parts of it to memory. The part I neglected to remember is that he wants a say in where the sofa eventually lands.
Colors are evocative. Colors are emotional. I need to be one with the color. Ohm. It so happens that Husband, while having excellent taste in clothing style and furniture arrangement, is fairly color-blind. Part of our morning ritual is for him to motion me to stand next to him at the mirror and sign off on his choice of shirt and tie combination. He can usually tell by my facial expression if it’s a successful pairing. On days he needs to go back to the drawing board I start by saying. “You know that I say this with love…” and before it’s out of my mouth he’s peeling the tie off.
Before all the current home makeover shows hit the airwaves there were very few straight guys who would admit to knowing about decorating flourishes. Now even men who were never in the closet have an opinion on what color it should be. Husband was years ahead of the pack. And it turns out that wanting to be one with the color has nothing to do with being able to see the color. The night before the painter was to arrive while I sifted through the soft creamy neutrals for our bedroom, Husband decided he wanted an accent wall. As he handed me the Benjamin Moore Mexicana Red paint strip I repeated my color mantra over and over in my head. “You know that I say this with love…”
And as it further turns out that red wall looks great.