How, in our culture, has it become accepted that the wife is the decorator of the house? Why is it such a crime for me to hang my Pink Floyd “Wish You Were Here” poster in the living room? What’s wrong with white walls? How many candles are too many in a given room? These questions have been plaguing me since my wedding day.
Before my wife moved into my apartment and ruined everything, I had a cool living room. The Pink Floyd poster was the center piece on the wall, flanked by a battle-ax and a samurai sword that I had gotten awesome deals on at the flea market. On my coffee table sat a stuffed armadillo, and in the corner stood a one armed mannequin dressed in a tan, suede tuxedo and a Viking’s helmet. The refrigerator stood next to the couch, giving me easy access to the beer crisper without needing to stand up and walk into the kitchen.
But it’s all gone now. There is not a shred of manliness left in the room. Every object decorating the space falls into one of three categories: flower-plant, candle or huge word (the huge words are hung or painted on the wall, and say things like ‘LOVE’ or ‘FAMILY’ or some cheesy saying that no self-respecting man would ever utter).
The walls have been painted a baby poop yellowish-brown, except for the brilliant red ‘accent’ wall, which makes my head hurt and my ears ring when I look at it for too long.
She has had her way with the bathroom as well. It’s a light purple color and she hung mirrors everywhere to make the small space look bigger. Mirrors in the bathroom are fine for the vanity, but why do I need one hanging where I can see myself sitting on the toilet? And not just one angle, I can view myself sitting from the front or side view. . . . . . I never really realized what funny faces I make when I’m pooping. There is also a small mirror hanging over the back of the toilet that provides a near perfect image of my stomach to knee area when standing in front of the toilet. A floral print shower curtain now hangs where my Star Wars shower curtain once hung.
She has taken over the entire house. Like a virus, the candles, plant material, huge words and mirrors have spread into every room. All I have left is my shed. It’s where my Pink Floyd poster now hangs and my armadillo resides. It’s where I go and sit to grieve over losing my man-inspired decorating themes.
It would seem that I have no say left when it comes to our choice in home fashion, but at least I still have my shed. If she ever gets the crazy idea to decorate my shed, I’ll burn it to the ground! I’d rather see it ablaze than defiled with the “wife decorating virus.”