If a Man's Home is His Castle, Why is There Potpourri in My Moat?

It happens every spring.
Outside, Mother Nature brings life to new flora and fauna, and fresh beginnings to plants and animals that survived winter's ravages. Inside, Mother McCormick brings brushes, buckets and spackle, and fresh ideas for rooms only recently refurbished.
What chromosome in women dictates to them that when daffodils come up, drop cloths must go down? What diabolical biological alarm sounds within them when buds pop, sprouts shoot, and shoots sprout? Why can they not be content to leave completely comfortable and fully decorated rooms alone, to remain as they are and age gracefully like all of Mother N's other creations? Could it be that women, continually dissatisfied with their own looks, must change the appearance of everything around them?
Friends and strangers who visit our home profess love for it. They comment on how inviting, warm, and well decorated it is. How everything complements everything else. I pray they will not utter the dreaded phrase: "It seems so lived in." Such sentiment is akin to saying to She-From-Whose-Hand-My-Heart- Dangles-Like-A-Yo-Yo: "I loved that dress when you wore it the last time."
My Bride's eyes surpass those of our cats when it comes to spotting slightly scuffed surfaces or mature paint. She scans walls like search-and-destroy radar, with an intensity that sometimes bubbles less hardy finishes. I'm a trout destined for eagle talons, floating with the current, looking for larvae, minding my own business. And ka-zowie!
"We need to repaint the living room!"
"Didn't we just give it a fresh coat?"
"Bush One was in office!"
"Still looks good!" (The paint and he.)
"Not if you look closely."
(Darn, the one day my electron-microscope is in the shop!)
"Everyone says our house looks marvelous!"
"They don't live here...and see dirt marks on the walls...chipped places on the cove molding and base-board...hair-line cracks in the plaster. And the color scheme is outdated...it's almost as bad as avocado and harvest gold."
I always imagined my perfect house would be adorned with shag carpet in those colors, and linoleum kitchen floors and appliances to match. A fully coordinated approach...now that's the mark of a true professional!
"We need swatches of various off-white colors," says She-Who- Spray-Paints-The-Morning-Sun, Power-Rollers-The-Blue-Skies- Of-Afternoon, and Brushes-The-Night-Because-It's-Too-Dark- For-The-Strokes-To-Show.
"We'll blend the ceiling, walls, and trim in various and descending shades of white. Then, we'll have our furniture recovered to supply the right splashes of color. Add a throw-pillow here and wall-hanging there to consummate the look. Won't that be nice?"
We're complete opposites. She talks...I listen.
"Yes, dear," rolled off my tongue slicker than Vaseline on a doorknob.
When wives redecorate, it's never minor surgery. It's amputate this and remove that. Items in close proximity to transgressing body parts are gangrenous and suffer the same consequences. Guilty by association, off with its head!
Paintings once revered for color, warmth, personal taste, and fond memories now share storage space in the basement with teary eyed kids, lithographs of The Duke, and dogs playing poker. (Saved and safely stored from earlier refurbishing episodes.) In their places, English watercolors, pen-and-inks of Victorian flower arrangements, and crypt rubbings of dwarf knights.
Comfortable chairs and cushy love-seats don't fit the new decor, either. From whence cometh these ladder-back Shaker chairs? (One fifteen-minute sitting and I'll confess to anything.) Canvas-covered couches trimmed with gold rope? (Old drop cloths, no doubt.) And a massive armoire set at a jaunty angle in the corner? (Lay it lengthwise and it will take up even more space.)
Years ago, as part of our marriage vows, in addition to absolute obedience I had to swear before God, a full Presbyterian congregation, close friends and relatives, and Reverend McMullen that I would leave Matters of Design and Decorating to She-Who-Must-Be-Heeded. I have lived up to those vows: Through three ancient houses; thousands of gallons of paint; quaint throw rugs in place of carpets; and antique furniture more brittle than my Great Aunt Henrietta.
Never once have I mentioned a recliner chair for the family room. Nor a solid, wood-grain Formica entertainment center with 60-inch flat-screen television. Or a maple gun cabinet to store and display my collection of ancient hunting pieces. Which probably is a good thing, too. Because those puppies are impossible to move when you need to repaint, and spring is poking its little green whiskers through the ground outside and there isn't a safe room in the house!
by Leighton McCormick
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