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House of a different color

Biff America

I must say I was startled. “Plum Blossom” is not a pet nickname of mine. I might have let it slide and gone back to sleep, but when she bolted up right she inadvertently elbowed me in the face.

“Damn it, Ellie,” I said. “I think you might have broken my nose, and who the hell is Plum Blossom? Is he that sushi chef with all those tattoos flirting with you last night at dinner?”

She looked at me as if I were speaking Greek and said, “I want Plum Blossom in our bedroom and I barely touched you. Go back to sleep -after you get me a glass of water.”



I was about to tell her that if she thought I was going to engage in a menage with some young buck named after a flowering tree, whose hands smell like raw fish, she could think again. Then it dawned on me she was just anguishing over what colors to pick in our, hopefully, soon-to-be completed house.

Sometime in this decade we will move into our new home. Part and parcel with the price was a plain and boring white interior paint job. My bride’s parents thought they were doing us a favor by footing the bill for a custom color option. Instead they opened a Pandora’s box of indigo indecision.



My mate is brilliant, beautiful, strong, graceful as a gazelle, but with the home decorating skills of a tractor. If you leave out the strong, pretty, smart and graceful stuff, I’m the same way.

Since neither of us have the decorating skills of Martha Stewart’s pit bull, we were at loss to choose a color scheme.

Lucky for us our home is being erected in part by Ice, Plumbing and Heating, whose motto is “Moving at glacier speed to build you a better home.” That being the case, we’ve had plenty of time to come up with enough wall-covering options to cause our painter to consider another occupation.



I’ve found the best way to maintain a healthy marriage is to let my spouse think she is always getting her way. It’s been my experience that this is best accomplished by S always giving her her way. For that reason I’ve stayed out of the color game. I also felt it was best if the house painter only hated one of us.

I believe that the Bush administration should deregulate marijuana and regulate Sherman Williams. What kind of sadistic, polychromatic maniac comes up with all those colors and names? For the last six months I’ve been tripping on her color charts and rolling over them in bed. Even if I stare at those samples until hell freezes over, or the Red Sox win a World Series, I cannot tell the difference between “Dragon Fruit, Feverish or Impatient” pink. Those are just three of the 24 designations of “pink” offered in the catalog.

Once finished, our love nest will be capable of sexually exciting a hummingbird. Our living room is “Laudable Lime.” “Plum Dandy” surrounds both toilets. The kitchen is covered by “Ice Plant,” and when and if you throw in “Plum Blossom” in the bedroom, the place will look like a school of tropical fish. I’m a little worried about hallucinogenic flashbacks.

I got Ellen a glass of water and brought it back to our bedroom. She took a sip, and I waited for her to calm down.

“Ellie, I thought we agreed on “Obstinate Orange’ for the bedroom and that was after you had Dan (the painter) cover that one wall with “Peach Fuzz Pink.’ If we tell him you now want “Plum Blossom,’ he’ll walk off the job.” I gave her a Tylenol PM to put her out for the rest of the night. Just as she was dropping off to sleep she mumbled the word, “Kumquat.”

“Kumquat?” I said, “What wall do you want painted “Kumquat”?

Ellen sat up in bed and looked at me like I was crazy. “I don’t want any wall painted “Kumquat,'” she said with disgust. “That’s the name of the sushi chef with all those cute tattoos.”

Biff America can be seen on RSN television, heard on KYSL radio, and read in this and other fine newspapers.


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