mixed signals

As Blake and I watch our Saturday morning cartoons, a VeggieTales comes on about fibs. It involves a plate falling off a tall shelf and breaking. When it shatters on the floor, I say, "Oh, no!"

Blake replies, "Oh, no! It's broken. It has to go to the doctor."

I can just see it: He'll break some beloved tchotchke of mine (much like his father did once - funny story), and instead of being sensible and gluing it back together, he'll call 911. And then they'll arrest me for being a silly momma, telling my child that anything broken or hurt either has to go to the doctor or be thrown away. Broken car? Car doctor. Broken toy? Toss it and be more careful with your toys. See, to me it makes sense, but I'm pretty sure he's just imagining our sweet Dr. Luke seeing a procession of sick kids, a banged up car, and a broken dinner plate.
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As for Daddy Blake breaking something of mine, he, uh, disliked my tendency to place decorative items on flat surfaces in our home. Let's not get into his hatred of all things cutesy, or my silly affection for things I would otherwise scorn as cutesy ("But my MOM gave it to me, and I love her, thus I love it!")...plus I used to like certain cutesy things quite a bit. Don't judge me. He knew I was aware of his disdain, and, as a joke, decided to use my Mary Engelbreit figurine (please don't judge me) to show me a new knot he'd learned. He tied a knot around the figurine and slung it over the shower curtain rod. I was not home at the time, and when the rope slipped, the figurine fell to the floor of the shower and broke in two, he panicked. He glued it together as best he could, then put it back...or, he thought he put it back.

See, I am a type A personality, bordering on anal-retentive and compulsive. I noticed that it was slightly off almost immediately and asked him about it, thinking it was weird he would rearrange my stuff. He fibbed about moving the fan, which accidentally pushed the figurine off the shelf, and he had to glue it and hope I wouldn't notice. I saw the flaw right away: the figurine was not the first thing that would have fallen, it would have been another decorative item given me by a friend (please don't judge me!), and he would have had to almost intentionally shove the shelf in order to break the figurine. Which, of course, is what I accused him of, thinking he was callous and mean-spirited to take his hatred of cutesy so far. When he told me the story of the knot and the slippage, he was so painfully embarrassed, I fell all over myself reassuring him that it was ok.

I don't think either of us learned our lesson. I kept my cutesy stuff up, and when the movers came to pack us up for Los Alamos, he called me at work and told me they wouldn't have room for everything. Alarmed, I asked what we had to leave behind (thinking the couch or the bed), and he said, "Pretty much all the Mary Engelbreit stuff. I'm sorry sweetie."