That's A Lotta Bull

I watched with glee as my cousin and her husband unloaded the Mate's bed and dresser, that her son had outgrown, into our garage. Well, ok. My husband and her husband unloaded the stuff while she and I chit chatted about the unseasonably warm weather and pretended to have sore backs.  Ladies-- the sore back is the best alibi-- it doesn't show up on x-ray, alcohol may make it better, AND it gets you out of everything. And I mean everything... get it? Wink, wink. Bless my wretched, sore back. Ha.

Anyway, as their truck was pulling out of the driveway and we were waving with smiley faces, Husband said, through smiley, clenched teeth: If you lay paintbrush to bed, you are declaring War.

I peed my pants a little when he said the war thing while smiling and waving. 

Me: Sorry? What? Did that even make sense?
Husband: Don't stop smiling. They'll see you! (pause) I said, if you pick up a paintbrush with the intent of modifying that bed, you are declaring War in our home.
Me: Did you take over for Kim Jong-Il when he died or something?
Husband: For the duration of our time with this bed and dresser, yes I am the North Korea to your South. IF you pick up a paintbrush, you are declaring war.

(thank heaven the truck just headed out of sight so Creepy Creeperson can stop smiley-threatening me)

I stop waving and look at my husband with my super-duper-incredulous face, which (I think) is kinda like this one:

Say whaaaaa?

He turns on his heel and gets himself between me and the direct access to our paint supplies. Who does this guy think he is? And also, when did he get so quick?  Laughing it off as some sort of stunt, I said, "Honey, darling, schmoopsie-poo, this bed and dresser are in great condition. Why would I want to paint them?"

"I'm on to you, lady. I know you're doing the "I don't want to paint it" crap so that you can convince me to decide it needs painting. Well, I'm not falling for it. I repeat: if you put paintbrush to bed, you are declaring war."

Eff-that! When did our relationship go from partner to parent? And, if so, how did HE end up with the parent card? I totally remember rigging that deck years ago. I'm starting to get miffed.

Now I have to do the old repeat-the-statement-as-a-question so I can buy some time for me to figure out my next move.

"Declaring WAR? Really? WAR?"

"Yes." he said simply. Frick. He's not really helping. And in my panic, all my stupid war metaphors and illusions have retreated into the trenches of my mind and are waving a white flag. No, that's a pair of tighty-whiteys they're waving, that's how desperate they are for a surrender.  

Frickin' nice. 

Thanks brain. 

Again. 

If I get out of this alive, I'm totally using high-fume paint and killing off a few more traitorous brain cells. 

Ha-haa. Winning.

Anyway, I'm frantically trying to pull up some lame Alexander The Great or Genghis Khan reference that might send him off balance while he figured out what I was talking about. Nothing. FRICKIN' BRAIN!  How am I supposed to trick Husband into letting me update (paint) the bed and dresser if I don't even have a second-- A FRICKIN SECOND-- to formulate a plan of attack?!?

Ladies, heed my warning: learn your history or you will be doomed to never be able to repeat it when needed.

"Well, but... it's uh, it's in good condition, but like, it's already... uh, been used by two other grown boys. (oh I'm onto something!!) Like, I just want to give the bed and dresser a chance to survive Kiddo #2."

"Not a bristle." He has crossed his arms, albeit playfully, and the more he protests the thing I hadn't officially yet proposed, the more desperately I want it. All I can think about is 15 different colours I could repaint the bed, and crazy stuff I could do to the dresser-- whole boy room themes are flipping through my head in rapid fire like the pig in Toy Story when he's using that remote to find the pizza commercial. 

Oh, Toy Story! That'd be a great theme, too! I could do the dresser as the Claw game and then the bed I could paint like Buzz Lightyear's ship. And put little white clouds on the walls and paint Rex and Woody and  like, like...

This is why teenage boys get nothing done; I now realise that updating Kiddo #2's bedroom has become like The Teenage Pursuit of Sex to me. (according to the American Pie movies anyway) All I can think of is how, and where, and when, and what... And the fact that Husband has all but threatened me with Divorce if I paint a damn thing in our house and how I. Just. Don't. Care. I. Want. This. So. Bad. 

Husband: You don't have to Craft Bomb everything that comes into our house.

Me: Craft Bomb? (Dang it! I'm giggling. Bah.)

Husband: (looking smug) Yeah. I said it.

Me: I don't want to cover it in glitter or scrapbook paper. I want to paint it espresso brown.

Husband: Don't touch it. 

Me: Why?

Husband: Because there's nothing wrong with it. It's in great condition. You're fixing something that isn't broken.
Me: Where does your dedication to boring come from exactly? 

Husband: I'm an engineer. Function over form.

Me: I'm an ... artist. Form over function. 

I'm starting to get annoyed again. Who does this guy think he is? Why is he even allowed to weigh in on something that doesn't concern him? Is HE the one doing the painting? No. Is HE the one that will be doing the design work? No. Is HE the one that will be doing the sanding/putty filling/washing/priming/first coat/second coat? NO! So why is he even allowed to have a voice here? It makes no sense. It's like listening to people that don't vote or pay taxes tell you who to elect. Seriously? No more talking for you.

I think he could sense the temperature was falling again, despite my initial giggle. 

Husband: I read your blog, by the way.  It was really funny. I loved it. It's the best one you've written yet.

Me: (squealing) Thanks! I loved it, too. Did you love the reference to Leonard Cohen? Frickin' genius, right?  Should I have put some flapping doves in the background of that picture or no? ... Why are you smirking? (pause) Are you kidding me? Holy frick you're smooth Husband. I'll give you that. But, you're not allowed to distract me with compliments and blog-love. No fair!

Husband: Seriously. Just leave the bed alone. It didn't do anything to you. 

So, Husband, what you're saying is that as long as I don't paint the bed and dresser, we're cool? Awesome. Cuz yesterday, when I was picking out the paint, I figured out what I want to do-- ROBOTS! I think I'll do the dresser as a giant, orange robot, the bed in espresso, the other random piece of furniture in espresso and then put some robots on the wall. Cute ones, retro ones. That must appeal to his nerd, right? Robots? 

Me: Husband-- I'm writing down some notes for my next blog-- what did you call it when I wanted to paint the bed stuff again?

Husband: Craft bomb.

Me: Ha. That's funny. All I can see is a canon filled with glitter that explodes and purple and black glitter gets on everything and then there are red streamers. I don't know where they came from, though.

Husband: Wow.

Me: Dang it! I just wrote "bloggy" on my phone and the frickin' autocorrect changed it to "blight."  Does Autocorrect even know what blight means?

Husband: Autocorrect is the blight on the iPhone landscape.

Me: Way to use the only example for blight. It's like the phrase used to explain Bane--everyone says "the bane of my existence" and they still don't know what that means.

Husband: So ... now you're mad at me for using a word in context?

Me: Well, that's what happens when you play with a bull. Sometimes you get a fun basketball game, and sometimes you get the horns-- and I've taken the liberty of tying a paintbrush to the tail of the bull that you're now a kabob of. Guess where y'all are headed.

Husband: War?