My husband's days are numbered

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

I'm an artist and a woman -- decorating is my birthright. It says so in the Bible -- if it doesn't it should. I will lose sleep over a picture's position on the wall -- if it's too high or too low or just a hair off center.

I make sketches on graph paper in advance of moving furniture or rearranging artwork. The process of setting up a room that is both interesting and pleasant to look at takes me hours -- HOURS. Then my nimrod husband comes along; moves a side table to the other side of the room; plops five dying plants on it; and looks at me like "what's the problem" when I throw a bucket of ape shit at him.

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.