Life Is A Highway...

That man I'm married to is quite a trip. Last weekend while out at the farm, Big Daddy decided to express his latent interior designer by hanging part of his license plate collection (???) in the basement. When I saw him sorting through a pile of rusty old metal, I couldn't help myself.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm choosing which license plates I'm going to hang up here at the farm."

Then I noticed a box of nails and a hammer right next to him as he continued to shuffle through his pile of plates.

"I hope you're planning to hang those things in the barn or the garage and not in the house," I said with a tad more urgency and a good dose of sarcasm.

"Nope. I'm hanging them right here in the basement. In every house we've ever had, I never have any say about anyplace but the basement, so I'm asserting my right to this space and hanging what I want on that wall right there."

So I'm thinking, 'Okay, then. It's the ugliest wall in the whole dang place, I'm working kind of a "Cowboys & Indians" decor for the farm anyway, so what the hell, rusty license plates sort of conjure faded Wranglers and old beat up trucks, why not let the guy have his fun?'

But what I said was more like, "Do what you want. But I suggest you start in the corner and work your way out. And I also suggest that random placement usually looks better than trying to figure out some sort of pattern. And - if I hate it, I'm taking it down." And I went back upstairs.

A lot of pounding noise came from the basement, and as much as I wanted to watch the process, I stayed upstairs. Even when the pounding ended, I kept myself otherwise occupied. And then, when Big Daddy and Dusty The Trail Dog (aka Lazy) went out for their requisite ride around the property, I sneaked a few snaps.

Truthfully, I think he improved the look of the wall. But I do hope his decorating itch has been permanently scratched.