Dinah nodded sagely. She wasn't one for guns, but even she could see the appeal of shooting an IKEA bookshelf instead of putting it all the way together. And given how viciously she'd gone after some pieces with a mallet, she couldn't say for sure that she wouldn't have shot it herself is she'd had a firearm on hand.
Bruce's point that Alfred was really what made the difference in decor made her nod again in agreement, and turn to grin at him, "You're on to me; I married you for Alfred." She probably wouldn't have been the first to try either. Dinah was still getting used to the idea of Alfred, despite having spent a considerable amount of time in the Manor before-- but it would never not be weird to her to have a man in his late sixties folding and putting away her underwear, even with Alfred's impeccable professionalism (and the fact that she now had her own assortment of drawers and more closet space than you could shake a Vera Wang at).
He did fulfill his promise of finding a place for all of her furniture, however-- some of which Dinah still hadn't found again, but which she was sure Alfred could point out if she asked. One thing that had made a prominent transition, however, was The Singing Butler painting, a birthday surprise from several years ago, which now hung in their joint bedroom. And she was glad it was there. As cheesy as it was, she liked to look at it every day; for all kinds of sappy and sentimental reasons that were likely going to make her insane hormones turn in the waterworks if she thought about it too long.
Besides, there were more important things to think about; like how Bruce went straight for the throat-- so to speak. "Hey--" she said when he took her drink and shot him a rueful expression before drinking from it again as if to prove a point. "I can have some sugar." She added, only turning to check in on Maria and her whole processing of the news once she had her drink back.
Not like it would do her any good, virgin as it was, but it was the principle of the thing.