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While listening to Brad Paisley's tune, "The Mona Lisa," one evening in the car a few months back, I asked my husband, "Do you feel like the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa?"

As soon as he paused, I knew I was not going to get what I wanted from that question.

"Uh, I don't know. ...What does that mean?"

"It's in this song by Brad Paisley. Haven't you heard it?"

Of course he'd heard it. The man, not raised in the South as I was, loves country music nonetheless.

"Yeah, but I haven't really listened to the lyrics. I don't know if it's good or bad."

"It's good, obviously!" I cried. "The Mona Lisa? One of the most beautiful paintings in the world?"

"Okay, but I don't know the lyrics."

"Really? Humph." I crossed my arms, disgusted.

"Mama, I feel like the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa," my eldest boy said in sympathy and some fear.

"Thank you, Berto. I'm glad at least you do." I threw a dirty look at my man. "Even he knows it's a good thing."

Of course I should know better. My husband is completely lacking in the ability to dissemble for the mere sake of romance. It's a good thing, but there are times when I wish he would talk pretty to me like some hero in an Austen or Bronte novel. Or a Brad Paisley song.

Once when my husband and I were newly engaged, we had plans for a big date night, but when he arrived, I could tell by the look on his face he was too tired to go anywhere. So I decided to amuse myself the best way I knew how. I asked him a provoking question inspired, as we women sometimes are, by a foolish magazine article I had read.

"Which feature of mine do you like the best?" I asked him, eager to hear the reply.

I give him points now for not groaning aloud.

"I don't know. What do you mean?" he responded wearily.

"Well, do you like my hair? My mouth? What?"

"I don't know," he repeated.

At this point, I became exasperated. "How about my eyes?" I asked, pointing him in the right direction. "My eyes are nice, right?"

His answer could only have come from a very, very weary man.

"You wear pretty eye make-up sometimes," he said.

I'll never forget the warm and fuzzy urge I had to hit him over the head with my makeup bag.

"You have got to be kidding me!" I fumed.

"I like all of you," he responded hotly. "It's not any one thing. It's the whole package."

My man may not know how to speak sweet nothings, but he has no problem having a little fun at my expense, like the time he pretended to get a running start in order to shove my gargantuan foot into a sneaker - at the shoe store.

Or the time when I was shopping for new socks after my third child, and I couldn't find socks for my shoe size. Until I did. That's when I discovered I was now wearing the extended sizes. That evening I laughingly asked my husband what I would have to do if my feet continued to grow with pregnancy - buy the extended plus sizes?

"No," he said. "We'll just cut the toes off." Then he laughed himself silly.

"I am not a wicked stepsister!" I shouted after one of his little jokes.

"No, you're my big-footed Cinderella," he responded gallantly.

I can just picture how that fairytale might have played out if I had been in Cinderella's shoes. The King would have adjured the Duke to find "the big-footed gal who wears these size 10s!" And my stepsisters would have been petite little things with size 6 1/2 feet. When the Duke showed up, they would be surreptitiously stuffing the toe of my slipper with tissue just so they could claim my Prince. But no dice. I'd have my other glass slipper stashed in a duffle bag over my shoulder.

I heard another Brad Paisley song recently. It has a beautiful chorus:

To the world/

You may be just another girl/

But to me/

Baby, you are the world!

I dare not ask Matthew if I am his world. He would likely reply, "You're part of my world. Arizona. Maybe a slice of Texas."

As for that whole Mona Lisa misunderstanding, my husband listened to the lyrics and later texted me this:

I am the frame that gets to hold the Mona Lisa, and I don't care if that's all I ever do. ;)

I texted back: That's all I wanted to hear.

And I tried to ignore the wink at the end.

- Hillary Ibarra

Hillary Ibarra has had several humor pieces published on Aiming Low and humorwriters.org. She is a mother of four who dreams of playing the banjo, living in Jane Austen's childhood home and writing for more than spam artists and 50 loyal readers. She is the mysterious blogger at No Pens, Pencils, Knives or Scissors. In her spare time she likes to threaten to sell her children to the zoo, and their little dog, too.