Does this blog make my butt look big?

I showed Husband a picture of a kitchen backsplash that had caught my eye and my fancy in one of my shelter magazines. He looked at it for a minute or so while I gushed about it's beauty, and then, when I asked him what he thought, he said carefully, "Some people are connoisseurs because they become so familiar with something, like food. You know, they enjoy things regular people don't because they can appreciate the beauty and taste of something new, something regular people wouldn't understand."
I looked at him and said, "Is this your way of telling me you don't like the backsplash?"
"You, for instance, like classical music that isn't in the norm because you grew up listening to it. I like the tried and true classical music, but you like the weirder stuff now," he went on.
By this time I was laughing. Okay, so he doesn't like the backsplash, but good way to tell me and flatter my vanity at the same time. That's one of the reasons I married him: his wit and intelligence.
I laughed out loud recently at a Real Life comic (by Lance Aldrich and Gary Wise) where the woman is trying on a pair of pants. "Do these pants make my butt look bigger?" she asks her husband. Her husband replies, "They neither maximize nor minimize the area in question." The wife shoots back, "What's that supposed to mean?" I'm not sure I got all the words exactly correct, but that was the gist. Men are constantly at a disadvantage where unself-assured women are concerned. What do they say that isn't going to hurt feelings or cause anger or get them generally in the doghouse? It can be tricky. I try not to corner Husband like that because I'd rather not be gently lied to if he may be afraid to tell me the truth.
On the other hand, sometimes a gentle lie or complete omission of the truth can be desirable. When we were first married I was convinced I couldn't cook, so I set out to learn the art and skill of cookery with a stack of cookbooks and dim memories of Mom's advice. Everytime I tried something new we'd see how we liked it and if it should be repeated. Husband, thinking that I was, at that point, self-assured and able to take any critique with complete objectivity, would sometimes comment negatively on something that had taken me hours to prepare. It would rankle, though I tried not to let it and just take it for the objective comment that it was meant to be.
One day, though, I had spent some time making dinner and I was tired. He didn't like it and said something about it (and keep in mind that Husband is not in the habit of being critical of me. I don't want you to get the wrong impression. He honestly thought I meant it when I asked him how he liked it and was just responding in an honest way) and I kind of blew up. Since I'm fairly passive-aggressive, it was one of those tense moments of great and unpleasant surprise. He apologized and then, for years, never said a critical word about my cooking.
Years later I made beef stroganoff one night and noticed he wasn't eating much. By this time I was much less thin-skinned about my cooking and I asked him if he was okay. He very tentatively told me that stroganoff wasn't his favorite food. When I pressed him further, he admitted that he really didn't like it at all.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't know that."
He said, "I was kind of afraid to tell you because I didn't want to be critical of your cooking."
The poor man had spent years afraid of me blowing up again because of his honest opinion. Since I like beef stroganoff I had made it quite often, so he had had to suffer through it fairly regularly. We had a good laugh about it and I don't make it all that much anymore. It's more of a "what can I make out of the things in the cupboard" sort of dish these days. I try to make it when I know he won't be eating at home. Then we're both happy.
One of the other things Husband has to put up with is my addiction to magazines. I love magazines. They're shiny, they're new and they come every month to fill up my mailbox with fabulous ideas and pictures I can think and dream about for months and years down the road. I love back- issues of my magazines, which is why I have an overload of them stacked on my floor. Child Six likes to climb up the stack, ripping the covers and spreading them all over the place. Still I have them, battered as they are, full of my hopes and ambitions. They aren't fashion magazines and they aren't celebrity magazines, both of which I think of as a waste of paper; nor are they the girly-chat, let's talk about families and kids and what some celebrity has to say about marriage and losing weight (although, I admit, if I'm offered one or see one in the doctor's office I'll happily devour it. I just don't subscribe to them.). They are shelter magazines -- magazines full of beautiful rooms and homes, decorated with upmost taste and (usually) lots of money. They are the magazines of crown moldings, subway tiles and beadboard, mullioned windows and impeccable gardens, shiny floors and multi-colored walls.
I think I am a connoisseur in that respect. I know very much what I don't like in home decoration, and I have so many likes it would be hard to nail it down, but I think I can now tell the difference between well decorated and blech. My only problem is that I've never done anything with my home education, not really. It only takes money. And when I can rip out this nasty mauve carpet (it went well with the former owners' gray, pink and black 80's theme) I will slather chocolate colored paint on the walls. Or maybe robin's egg blue. Or maybe...the most ethereal French gray. But at least there will be tons more bookcases, which I will paint to look like built-ins. And the table in the dining room will be sanded down and laquered black. And I could go on and on, which I won't do because I realize not everyone is as obsessed as I am. That's why I only asked Husband about the one kitchen backsplash. If he wants to discuss home decoration voluntarily I'll happily comply. I just don't want to drive him insane. And I can take his honest opinion about what he likes better now. I've grown up a little in 14 years, I hope.