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A mans home is his hassle
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I've been trying to get my house decorated the way I want it decorated ever since I moved in three years ago.

I share my house with Catfish, the black Lab, but he has no particular notions on how a house should be decorated.

As long as there are dog biscuits to be carried into the living room and eaten on the carpet, he's happy.
I've been married three times and learned to live with pantyhose hanging in my shower, so I don't mind a few dog biscuit crumbs on the living-room carpet.

When a man moves into a house with a wife, he normally leaves the decorating to her. I did that.
My first wife, operating on a limited budget, did our first house in a Naugahyde theme. My third wife spent more on curtains than my first house cost.

But now, I'm in charge of the decorating and for once I want my house to reflect my own ideas about interior design.

I went through three female interior decorators just like that. I told them all at the outset what I didn't want. "No birds or flowers," I insisted. A man's house should not have birds and flowers all over the place.
Women interior decorators, however, ignore such pleadings of a man.

They think, "What does this creep know about interior decorating?"

So, all three of the female decorators came up with fabrics and designs featuring - you guessed it - birds and flowers. One even brought in wallpaper for a guest bedroom that featured large, pink birds who appeared to be flying through The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

I fired her on the spot.

"No-taste creep," she said, rolling her eyes and pooching out her lips as she twitched her way out my front door.

All I wanted was a house that looked like a man lived there. Leather. Mega-screen TV. I wanted greens and browns instead of stupid pink birds.

I have a large, framed photograph of Herschel Walker running with a football as he led my alma mater, the University of Georgia, to the 1980 National Championship. I wanted that displayed prominently.
I am happy to report I've solved my problem.

I found a male interior decorator. At first, I was a bit suspect of him.

"You don't live alone with cats and have wallpaper with pink birds ?" I asked him.

The man said he was married with two children and he also had a dog.

What a job he has done. There isn't a single bird or flower on anything in my house. He found a large, comfortable green sofa and it sits in front of my new giant screen TV. The wallpaper in the guest bedroom features a guy swinging a golf club. He spent a mere pittance on curtains, put down new carpet in the living room that is the same color as dog biscuit crumbs, and, for the first time in my life, I have a house decorated as I want it decorated.

And I have an entirely new attitude about male interior designers. Mine didn't roll his eyes and pooch out his lips or twitch out the front door when I said I wanted the big photograph of Herschel over the fireplace.
What a guy.

 Lewis Grizzard was a syndicated columnist, who took pride in his Southern roots and often wrote about them. This column is part of a collection of his work.