My poor indulgent husband.

When a girl has the amount of stuff that I have, what is the poor guy in her life to do? Does he have any say in the design decisions? Where does he get to keep his stuff? Does he get to keep his stuff?  Well, damned if I know! My husband may be plagued with many, many faults (I kid, I kid. I kind of, kind of kid!) but telling me how to decorate a'int one of 'em. Not only is he easy going, he likes to be surrounded by art, colour and interesting objects. Not that you could tell from his former bachelor pad, which contained a table and chair, a computer, a bed and approximately 25 jars of peanut butter with varying levels of peanut-y goodness inside. (He is both a smooth and crunchy kind of guy.) But back to his indulgence of all things weird and wonderful. The poor fella lets me get away with all kinds of decor shenanigans!

Me: "What do you think of turning the living room into an art studio, C?"
C: "I think you should've done it months ago."
Me: "Do you care if I paint the Virgin of Guadalupe on the kitchen cupboards?"
C: "Why wouldn't you?"
Me: "Can I hang 35 pictures of Frida Kahlo in here?"
C: "Well, you're gonna do it anyway."

The man has only two absolutes. 1) He needs space for his comics. 2) He needs to keep his bike in the house.

So I can't complain. This is, after all, a guy who didn't mind when I brought home a bust of a gorilla in a Sgt. Pepper jacket...epaulettes and all!

P.S. I'm working on the bike thing.