The battle of blue

One of the things that Fauxhawk and I have in common is a habit of pretending that we know more than we do about certain things. Those certain things include interior design and landscaping, but also extend to other topics such as possession rituals in Sudan, the evils of circumcision, and whether Christopher Hitchens has completely lost his mind. Lacking expertise in these subjects does not seem to prevent us from
expounding at great length until it becomes obvious that we are full of shit, or until our audience begins to wither and die. Perhaps even worse is when our bravado leads us to a private moment of horror, like when I awoke to a freshly painted electric blue room one morning and - after suffering a minor stroke - cried. Eight coats of paint later, my wall was white. Not deep ocean blue with white and silver accents for dramatic effect. WHITE.

This weekend, Fauxhawk decided to paint his bedroom. I suggested that he might also take this opportunity to throw out a few things he didn’t need. “What things?” he asked, eying me defensively. I took a brief inventory:

1. Used nicotine transdermal patches (used to quit smoking)
2. Empty cigarette boxes (the contents of which used to ease pain of quitting)
3. Approximately 17 empty bottles of seltzer
4. Approximately 20,000 black ballpoint pens
5. Someone else’s hard drive from 1998
6. A dead television
7. Takeout menus from Miami, Florida

“I need those,” he said. “I’m going to used those crumpled drugstore receipts from 2002 in a project.”

Okaaaaaaaay.

We decided to focus on picking the paint and headed to Home Depot. For some people, nirvana is a big piece of fudge, a sunset in Santorini, or gay sex under the influence of crystal meth. Bah to that, I say. True bliss is the paint section of Home Depot, the origin of so many of my ill-fated home improvement projects. So many colors…so many possibilities for disaster. Fauxhawk stared at the sea of paint chips I had already begun to compile.

Me: I like this. Paper bag brown is very chic.
Fauhawk: What? NO.
Me: What about these?
Fauxhawk: Too girly.
Me: What do you mean, girly? How can blue be girly?
Fauxhawk: I dunno. What about this? (Picks violent teal paint chip)
Me: …(silent in disbelief)
Fauxhawk: You don’t like it?
Me: … (regaining consciousness)
Fauxhawk: It’s too gay, right?
Me: JESUS. No. What is a gay color, pray tell?
Fauxhawk: Pink or purple.
Me: Oh. Okay. (Nevermind that the chosen color of a long line of Byzantine emperors was purple. They must have all been fudgers.)

So we buy the teal paint. Fauxhawk wants the non-gay, non-girly teal paint, so I suspend disbelief and go with it. When we get home, the fun begins.

As esteemed experts in the wall painting arts, both Fauxhawk and I have strong ideas about the way a room should be painted. Fauxhawk does not entirely agree that one must move furniture out of the way, cover the floor with a drop cloth, or apply paint in a methodical manner. I feel you, Fauxhawk, I really do, but watching you paint is like watching Helen Keller wander into traffic. At first, I bite my tongue, gathering all my strength so as not to blurt out, “The paint is dripping down the fucking wall onto the fucking floor! Fucking fuck!”

Similarly, Fauxhawk has some doubts about my ability to apply paint to a piece of paper. His anxiety level heightens as he watches me create the color swatch. “I KNOW HOW TO CREATE A FUCKING PAINT CHIP FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” I say, with all the authority of a seasoned paint professional.

I begin to think that I will never have a room in paper bag brown. Or pink. Or exactly the color I want. What I really need, I think, is a place of my own or a man with no opinions about interior decorating, so I can have my way with the paint. This won’t do. How will we ever live together? How will we ever get married? Surely “death do us part” does not involve paint-related homicide.

Surely, it’s not about paint. So what’s it about?


Image from Pantone