That Annoying Throaty Noise
I am a perfectionist.
There. I said it. Not that this is news to anyone that knows me… Spend five minutes in a room with me and you will be subjected to lint picking, and, if there are things hanging on the wall, a long-winded analysis of how perfectly (or not perfectly) aligned each object is.
That being said, Alex and I have been working on a few home-improvement projects for my apartment. And because I cannot paint or put wallpaper featuring Greg Grunberg’s face up or do anything else fun, I have opted to fill every single inch of available wall space with framed art.
(As a side note, I am very picky about the art that I put up. I generally feel weird putting up anything that I didn’t make myself. Which is really stupid, almost as stupid as the Marshmallow Blaster, which is actually stupidly awesome.)
In any event, because I have a Big Strong Man living with me for the summer, I have him do all of the grunt-work. He does the nailing, screwing, hanging, assembling, lifting and arranging. I supervise. And because I am a perfectionist supervising means I watch him like a hawk and make throaty irritated noises every time I think he’s doing some unperfect. Which is a lot, because in addition to being a perfectionist I am also a control freak. Yes, I have a highly trained therapist and an unlimited supply of Prozac, thanks for asking.
Alex is generally a really good sport about the whole thing.
He normally responds with a sort of “I-love-you-but-I’m-about-to-kill-you” look, not unlike a look one might give a child who keeps asking the same question over and over. A look that says “if you want to make it to age 22 you better take your throat noises elsewhere” or perhaps “if you want this relationship to work you best run along and stick your finger in an outlet before I do it for you.” It is a look I get often, and I often am amazed at his restraint when it comes to me. More often than not I am commenting on the straightness of the pictures he has hung or his tendency to fart during otherwise romantic moments or the truly impressive amount of chest hair he has. And he hasn’t killed me. It’s a miracle!
But while I am the neurotic one, he is the charming one, the one who hangs pictures perfectly, especially when I’m not in the same room and preferably when I’m not in the same city.
