Why we can’t have world peace

Greg and I were walking Abe a couple nights ago and chatting about what we had done during the day.

“I bought a new bottle of nail polish,” I said.

“Oh, what color?” he asked. (I think this is the difference between a boyfriend and a husband. A husband knows to ask these kinds of questions.)

“Raven red.”

“Oh, so just another bottle of red?” he asked.

“What do you mean, ‘just another bottle of red?'” I demanded. “I don’t have any other red nail polish.”

He glanced at my toes.

“This is wine,” I said, gesturing to my sandal-clad feet. “And I have pink, and I have rose, actually it’s a translucent rose, but I don’t have any red!”

“Those are all shades of red,” he said.

“Pink is not red,” I argued.

You see, this is exactly why Greg can’t pick out matching clothes. He sees no difference between red and pink. This is also how I know God was never married. If he had been, he surely would have worked out these kinks. How can he really expect me, a nail-polish artist of sorts, to live in peace with Greg, a man who can’t tell maroon from mauve?

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