My husband suffers from an irritating delusion that he's allowed to decorate our home.
There's a Jabba the Hutt drinking glass on my piano. There's a very large frying pan on my ottoman. There's a plastic rat nailed to our house just below the porch light where it's visible to everyone in the neighborhood day and night.
Jerod told me this morning that I should thank him -- "I've given you something to write about."
Here's the deal
He hides my throw pillows and puts banana stickers on the cupboards. He stacks shit on the counters and furniture that I spent three weeks liberating from dumpster-loads of clutter.
I cannot write in a room that looks like a flea market salesman's laxative induced bowel movement.