Home Improvement?

I hate painting.

It’s not that I hate the work, the smell or the mess. It’s just that I am not particularly good at it. Painting requires those “fine motor skills” that seemingly has skipped my genetic makeup. As such, my passion for this endeavor is about as hot as a Yakima winter.

My wife, however, loves to paint. The idea that a room, it’s walls currently white but marked with evidence of having children, can be made into something bright, colorful and marked with evidence of having children, is something she finds absolutely fascinating. Of course, we don’t let our different views get in the way of a strong marriage. She just ignores my complaints and drags me into it by asking a seemingly simple, but ultimately complex, question.

“Do you like this color?”

This question is about as dangerous as going to IKEA on a weekend with her mother. Of course, being the rational person I am, I always respond appropriately to the request.

“Why don’t you just slit my wrists and dance on my grave.”

For some odd reason, she takes that phrase as “copping an attitude”. I must disagree. That isn’t “Copping an attitude”. “Copping an attitude”, as defined and refined by the “Ayatollah of copping an attitude for any and every possible reason while being the teenage goddess of this planet unless you need to drive me somewhere”, would involve stomping, glaring, deep sighing, saying that her brother has the mental capacity of a gnat, claiming that her sister has stolen every single thing she’s ever owned, asking if we have finally gotten off our butts and washed her sister’s new sweatshirt so that she can borrow it, demanding to be taken somewhere this very second and a disclosure that we have, with actually little effort, “ruined her total and complete life”.

My answer, therefore, was NOT copping an attitude. But insisting as she does that I stare at a one inch-square cardboard cutout of the color in question from 15 feet away and “use my imagination” to think of what an entire bazillion inch room will look, I feel at a distinct disadvantage. The problem is that I know, whatever I like, it will be greeted with dismay, consternation and the declaration that she might as well use a sharpie on the walls for all that color is worth. Being basically male, I jump on her statement and volunteer Sophie’s expertise on her latter suggestion, but all that does is make her go into something I call “color mantra”.

I have come to realize that color, contrary to that idiot physics teacher told me years ago, does NOT in fact come in a set of primary color set of red, green, blue and yellow. No, nowadays colors are named with more descriptive words like “warm summer fuchsia”, “cold blue heron” and “puke”.

“I like the blue one” I will say, looking at the sample.

“They’re all blue”

“Then I like the top one.”

“The top one? That’s green.”

“That’s what I said, I like the green one.”

“No, you said blue. Blue is too cold for this room. We need something warmer.”

“I thought paint only came in one temperature.”

Comments like that illicit a glare common to females in my household called the “You are a moronic pig” glare. It means that, “you aren’t wiggling out of this one, buddy boy. I am going to talk about pastels now.” And so it goes. Finally, some hours later, the walls will be plastered with enough one inch sample squares resulting in something out of a Picasso cubism nightmare.

The children, being every-so-helpful and why-aren’t they in school more, will come by and offer their suggestions. My wife will poll them individually.

“I like black”, Sophie will say holding a well used sharpie in her hand and a glint in her eye.

“I like blue”, Hannah will say, “and take me to the barn. Now, dammit.”

“What color? What room? Huh?” Henry will say.

For awhile, I’ll take Henry’s side in the matter. Then, suddenly, I’ll have a brilliant idea.

“Honey, how much are these little sample squares?”

“Oh, they’re free. Why?”

As I said, I hate painting. But taping, well that’s something else.