No More Plates!

David and I went to a Japanese restaurant for dinner a couple of nights ago.  Our appetizer was presented on a rectangular plate that looked like it had been sponge painted at Color Me Mine. 

For those of you who aren't familiar with Color Me Mine, it's a place you go to paint ceramics, to experiment with color, artistry and self-expression; in short, to have a blast.  There are about 100 pieces to choose from including animals, plates, bowls, mugs, pitchers, paperweights, frames, planters, holiday-themed items and much, much more.  

Over the years, I had spent a small fortune there, primarily when my kids were younger, but I also went with friends who enjoyed it as I did.  We would conjure up excuses to go like it's raining or it's too hot to be outside, and I was always excited when my daughters wanted their birthday parties there because that meant I could play too.  I even had my own 50th (?) birthday celebration at Color Me Mine as a bonding experience for my mom, sister and daughters (and Mike tagged along since we were having pizza first).

In addition to the fun of painting an item like a plate, for example (my personal favorite) - we have about 20 of them at home - each piece provides so much more than the utilitarian purpose for which it is generally intended; it becomes a sentimental representation of the artist, the memory of the day and the most meaningful part of all:  the relationship.     

                   

Back to dinner.  When we finished our appetizer, I told David that the reminder of Color Me Mine was making me long to go back.  I was caught off guard when he responded in an exasperated tone, "No more plates!"

W H A T ? ? ?  OUCH.

"What difference does it make to you? " I asked. "They don't get in your way."

"They sit in the kitchen cabinet and we never use them." 

Hold on a second.  "We use them all the time."    

What I should have said was Are you kidding me?  You have your stuff everywhere, and I would never tell you NO MORE of something that you liked...and believe me, I have plenty of opportunities!   

Defensively - but to "clarify" - he responded:  "I didn't say you can't make them; I said just don't bring any more home."

Oh, OK, that makes me feel SO much better. 

My lovely husband has no clue what it's like to live among his obsessions, including his love for the Grateful Dead.  I cringe when he shows interest in something new because I know that Interest = Purchase Number One which eventually becomes infinite purchases in that category. 

Take for example his appreciation of jazz.  Listening to jazz is compromised of many individual hobbies, each one receiving the royal treatment:  1 - searching for new/used albums to buy online, at record outlets and house sales; 2 - communicating on forums online with others who share this interest; 3 - collecting used/new "tubes" (which look like Christmas lights), placed in various pieces of equipment to enhance/manipulate the sound; 4 - buying/selling headphones, turntables, speakers, receivers, subwoofers, etc.; 5 - traveling to audio shows across the country; 6 - selling what he's lost interest in or has duplicates of; and finally 7 - actually listening to the music.

Now am I bothered by any of this?

I hadn't been.

But I will be if he utters one sound the next time I come home with my newest creation from Color Me Mine.