Why My Wife Can't Have Nice Things...

My wife has great taste, and she likes nice things.  In a perfect world she would have plenty of nice things in the house.  Pristine light colors would shine throughout, delicate and fragile items would be left safely on shelves.  The laundry room would smell of flowers and toilet seats would remain forever fastened down securely.  Instead she lives with me and two male dogs.  Even our cat is male.




Mason

 She likes hand towels and nice smelling soaps.  I like doing yard work and picking up the first thing I can find to wipe the dirt off my hands.

She likes seasonal smells and glade plug-ins.  I come home from basketball sweaty and smelling less than seasonal.

She likes dryer sheets and lavender smelling detergents. My socks sometimes get crunchy and need to be tapped with a hammer before washing.

She likes accent walls and themes that flow throughout the house.  I like sports.

And now we’re having a boy.  That leaves her sufficiently outnumbered.  In a house full of males she tries her best to keep things presentable. 

The other day we were putting together the dresser in Simon’s room when my wife said simply, “Your shoes!” I realized that I was still wearing my shoes, the same shoes that I'd worn to walk the dogs through the mud and the puddles as they had played creek, rolled in the grass, and frolicked in the woods.  I looked down at the untarnished white carpet and then back up to my wife like a child caught in the act.  Crap.

I gently eased off of the white carpet, shamefully removing my shoes in the hallway when I noticed Mason--our puppy, stretched out on the bed, sound asleep on the white comforter. This is why my wife can’t have nice things.

Jerked Around...

My life continues its transformation as over the weekend I lost my one and only room in the house.  Unofficially labeled the office, the spare room offered a glimpse into the interior design skills of the consummate man-child. 

Classic Sports illustrated covers adorned the rustic wood paneled walls as tacky met vintage in a mash up of thrift store finds, curb alert pick-ups, and my grandfather’s hand me downs.   All found a home in the one room that welcomed all items without regard to age or wear.

It was a room for items old and odd.  There’s the disconnected rotary phone, a torn Saturday Evening Post cover from the 1930’s, a miniature drum set, a painting of Shea Stadium, and my wife’s nemesis; the 1970’s style desk she has lamented since the day I pulled into the yard with it in the back of my truck (along with the shattered back window due to me not securing it).  It was truly a room that could only be appreciated by a guy.

But as we prepare for the next chapter in adulthood, changes are necessary, if not inevitable.  Our guest room is becoming the baby’s room, which means my office is becoming the guest room, which means my things are banished to the basement. 

Not to go down wiithout a fight (or just whining), I moaned and complained with each trip down the stairs, and at one point I may or may not have said something about not wanting to grow up.  Kicking and screaming, I carried sports memorabilia, concert posters, and that trusty rotary phone down to my its new location, and as I hung my football pennants on the wall and adjusted my posters, I realized that growing up means making sacrifices.