Fifty shades of blue

Since we’ve moved homes, we had to redo the kitchen. We did have a perfectly functioning kitchen but Hubby wasn’t happy with it. Our last home reno unleashed the inner decorator in him and the kitchen had to change.



New counters, appliances and backsplashes later, we’re still ‘fixing’ the place. And by we I mean Shane, a lovely, very, very patient, handy man who listens to my hubby’s ideas and tries to bring them into the realm of reality.

We’ve got the counters on, backsplash done and appliances in. Last week, Shane started to paint.

We had selected a colour back in the summer. We took tons of samples, moved them here and there and everywhere and compared them under every light imaginable. We eyed them with careful eyes looking for any hints of an undesirable shade and discarded accordingly. Finally, there were only two…and then, incredibly, only one. Shane took it to the paint store, got gallons of the stuff and slapped it on the walls.

Paint colour is a lot like monkeys, neither can be trusted. I’ve seen innocent shades of white turn to pink once applied to a wall. Instead of the lovely, foggy shade of white we had envisioned, our walls came out a light, Easter egg blue that made us cringe.

Desperate to fix things, Hubby came up with his the idea of an ‘accent wall’ and dragged the hapless Shane with him to the store to consult with the paint rep. The paint rep being only fourteen, they turned to the internet. Between them and Google, they came back to the house with gallons of a darkish grey-blue.

When I came home, delighted with the fact that it was Friday and we had power, I found that my house had transformed into a multi-shades of blue. Since the walls curve in different angles, the sun changed the hue on the wall until they looked like different colours. The result is that walking into our home is a lot like going to Sea World…only with dogs instead of whales.

Thing is, we still have to paint the bedrooms…and Hubby, never one to fear colour, has decided the shade of the moment is no longer blue but green.

Hubby did know he had out done things because after Shane departed he asked, ‘are you going to post this?’

I told him definitely not.

What the…

We’re selling our home. Last time we moved, we didn’t really pack until the movers were knocking on our door and it was an absolute disaster. The mere mention still causes me to shake with apprehension.

This time around, I wanted to be ready to go early. So I started getting rid of ‘junk’. It’s incredible how things collect around a house. Especially when one’s husband is afraid to get rid of anything.

My lovely hubby is a therapist and he doesn’t just have compassion for people in pain, lost animals or charities, he’ll rescue anything from an old school record to pictures of flowers.

I’ve found his dental records. From when he was 12. And paint, from our previous house. And tea lights…about a thousand of them.

Then there were the keys…


They seem like perfectly good keys and bring up the point: what do they open? We get in and out of our house and cars without their help so are they from our former home?

I wanted to throw them out while hubby was busy but that’s tricky. In my efforts to get rid of junk, I’ve thrown out valuables before. Once, we were almost stuck in Mexico because I threw out our papers to return–no joke.

Then there’s the fact that those keys will be useless if I leave them, but if I throw them out, they’ll open the safe with our passports or the next home we purchase. They might even haunt me or something.

No. It’s much better if I put them all into a little ziploc bag and leave them be. They’re obviously happy making their home with us.

My hubby would be proud…except if he read this post he’d also be suspicious.

I’ve thrown out those tea light candles.

Jeep + therapist = disaster

My lovely hubby is fanatical about my Jeep. He insists on cleaning it at least once a week. I’m less picky. I figure, it’s a Jeep; dirt adds character.

A few days ago, I drove through a construction site and somehow got some paint or tar or something on the Jeep’s paint. My husband almost hit the roof. He insisted he had to remove the stuff and he had to do so immediately. He got that look in his eyes that said: Taylor, stay away from me. I thought: Writing time! and went for my laptop.

An hour later, I walked outside to a nightmare.

Apparently, my therapist husband couldn’t get the paint or tar or whatever the heck it was, off with a cloth, so he tried something harsher.


Note: he used the green side.

The paint splatters were gone…so was the Jeep’s paint. Instead of the uniform, sandy yellow, my Jeep was now a spotted mess of lighter and darker shades of white. It looked like some sort of checker board. And the scratches were everywhere. Not one to leave a job half-done, my hubby had ‘cleaned’ every surface, front, sides and back.

To his credit, he was in horrified and felt very sorry. To mine, I told him it was only a thing and replaceable.

After I mentally added him to the list of characters who die in my next book.

Note: for those of you who need closure (a happy ending), we did take the vehicle to the shop where the owner (another Jeep driver) almost fainted, then proceeded to buff the coat with an obviously magical cream that removed every trace of those scratches. Except for a few minute marks, the Jeep is as good as new. And full of character.