Stealth Shabby Chic

I bought this bird cage, pictured below. It had a fake metal bird in it (obviously fake,duh,  it’s metal) so I took it out and stuck this plant in here.

My husband doesn’t know it, but I like shabby chic.

There probably aren’t many men who are fans of the style. It’s very floral and girly– think furniture with curlicues painted white, white slipcovered furniture, etc. So if I actively show him a photo of something like the photo on the right here, he says THAT MAKES ME THROW UP IN MY MOUTH.

But, if I buy a piece of old furniture (which is generally his job to move) and then I paint it while he’s at work and move it in, he DOESN’T NOTICE. I call it Stealth Shabby Chic, and it will one day consume all the land.

Last weekend, I got to pick out a chair. My husband said I got to choose it because he wants me to be comfortable. He’s very nice, but he still put in his four and a half cents when we went to the stores.  If he had his druthers, he’d choose the Ugliest La-Z-Boy black leather chair in the land. It would probably have a power lift and we would never interact with him again, because he’d be unconscious in it.

There was a chair we’d seen at Costco earlier in the season, and we didn’t buy it right away because we were thinking about it; this chair was a fair compromise between comfort and okay-looking-ness. But of course by the time we actually decided to get it and had time to go get it, they were sold out. We went to 3 different Costcos on Sunday before Labor Day. Three.  That is 3 different Costco parking lots! I almost died. For real; it was  100 degrees out and humid and I was sooo tired.

So, I got a big fat white slipcovered armchair instead. I told him white is best because you can bleach it, which is true. I think. I didn’t look at the care instructions, but that’s what I heard, and hearing is half the battle, GI Joe.

The thing is, I really think he doesn’t care unless he is involved in actually picking it out. Then, saying yes to a frilly dresser is like kicking the balls of his manhood. But if I do it all he can blame it on me.

Really, though, I spend most of my days here. At home. He doesn’t. Thus the environment matters less to him. As long as he has a place to sit when he gets home that is not actively like poking him in the butt with spines, he is fine.