It seems like just last week that I ended one of these missives with "And don't even start me on wallpaper shopping." OK, OK, it was two weeks. Picking out paint colors is nosebleed enough; picking out wallpaper is the curse of marriage death.
My Sainted wife recently pronounced that the wallpaper in the downstairs half bath was no longer deserving of existence. It has an inoffensive British garden quality that has mutely stood the test of time for 25 years. Suddenly, despite still clinging to the wall steadfastly, it must go.
Never mind that wallpapering a very small half bath with sinks and things protruding into it sorely tested our marriage 25 years ago when the two of us tackled wallpapering it - let's give it another go.
"Well, what does it now need?" I cleverly ask, fearing the answer that comes: "let's go look at patterns."
Shoot me now.
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