Thursday October 4th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about: the interior decorator.

Had a productive day around the house, finally getting around to the last of the windows that needed washing, as well as the bathtub and general shower area.

Took a quick visit out to the garden this morning. Only stayed long enough to confirm that the frost hit the pepper and cucumber plants. Probably killed a lot more but I wasn't feeling up to exploring.

We've got another cold night expected. Thankfully the once-again-in-action fireplace is keeping us warm inside.

Mine:

"I've done it, darling!" Barry called out as he came through the front door of his home. "I've found us an interior decorator!"

"Oh, that's wonderful news honey!" Virginia, his wife of more years than either of them cared to think about, replied as she came to greet him. "Who is she?"

"Well first off, she is a he." Barry deposited his jacket on the coat rack and turned to give his wife a disapproving look. "I don't know why you insist on being so sexist."

"Oh! I'm not... it's just... it is a rather... feminine vocation."

"So now you're saying he's gay? You haven't even met the man yet! I mean, honestly dear, this is just shameful. You haven't started in on your wine already, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetie - it's not even noon yet." Virginia flashed an insincere smile before attempting to get the conversation back on track. "So, who is he?"

"His name is Charles Peterson - I met him down at the General Store. I think you'll like him, even if he's straighter than Main Street."

"Why does that name ring a bell?" Virginia followed her husband as he ambled into the kitchen and went straight for the refrigerator. "Hold on a second, isn't he that beggar who's always crumpled up in front of the church?"

"Great, now you've got something against the poor too, is that it?"

"No, precious, what I have is something against hiring a blind man to decorate our home!"

4 Comments:

Greg said...

It seems a shame that the frost has killed the plants, but I guess that's the way nature works; it's like she's telling you that she's shutting up shop and it's time to go home :)
The fireplace sounds good though!
Back in the UK now, and despite the fact I'm further south again than Denmark it seems colder. I've no clue how that happens!
Heh, I like your punch-line, with the delicate pricking of the balloon of self-righteousness! It doesn't sound like Barry and Virginia have all that long left in their marriage though....

The interior decorator
"What's your mother drinking now?" hissed Cynthia. She was on her fourth glass of wine and had managed to drop a mushroom canapé down her blouse without noticing, though the eyes of every man in the room had spent time on it now. Barry sighed, wondering if his first wife, Virginia, hadn't actually been a better choice.
"Nanobots," he said back in a normal voice. His mother was on the other side of the room, half-hidden behind a Chinese screen, and partially deaf.
"Why?" hissed Cynthia, white wine sloshing over the rim of her glass and onto the terracotta-tiled floor.
"They're interior decorators," said Barry. "They spruce things up inside her, hang up pictures and generally polish things until they sparkle." He heard a couple of appreciative chuckles at his sarcasm, and turned away from his wife to talk to the chucklers, a wide grin on his face.
Ten minutes later, he turned back to find Cynthia gone. He scanned the room, wondering which poor man was entertaining the lush now, and saw her half-hidden behind the Chinese screen. A cold shiver ran down his spine.
"What's Cynthia doing?" he asked, his voice a little bit loud, a little bit shrill.
"She said she's getting some interior decoration," said a woman he didn't recognise, who was wearing an expensive evening gown and a disapproving frown.
"Oh crap!" Barry shuffled across the room as fast as he could, dodging between people and tables and pot-plants, trying to get to his wife before she ingested his mother's digitalis.

Cathryn Leigh said...

Crazy wine drinking interior decorating... yeah you two... crazy. Her's my bit. :P

the interior decorator (is us)

No need to hire an interior decorator in our house. With many things purchased sight unseen, and wall color to match the tires of a Hot-wheel truck (they were tan) our Master bath has turned out fine.

That’s right – my hubby and I picked everything out.

Then paid someone else to install it.

We’re still waiting on the Light fixture and the Vanity, but so far...


It’s awesome! *grins*

(true stroy)

Iron Bess said...

Hi, can't say how much I will be around for the next while as I am waiting for a crap load of relatives for the memorial next week but felt up to it enough to start writing again.

Interior Decorator

If I had to describe the kind of house I like with only one word, that word would be comfortable. Having grown up in a house where the only place you could actually relax was the garage I had made it a mission in my life to make sure that my house was comfortable, functional, homey, and relaxing. When I was a kid my mom had a small bathroom installed just off the foyer so when you walked into the house you had to go directly into the bathroom and shed every stitch of clothing you wore outside the sterilized zone and put on a freshly cleaned bathrobe. You also had to put new socks on so that your bare feet would not leave prints across the floor as you walked to your room. The whole time I was living at home I think that I had only actually ever entered our front room twice. Once purely by accident as I had forgotten it even existed.

That is the reason that my present home does not have any room dedicated as sacred ground. The living room has an overstuffed leather couch, large sections of bookshelves crammed to the rafters running down two walls, a small fireplace which has a large armchair snuggled in close, thick, soft throw rugs over well-worn golden hued hardwood planks, handmade coffee and end tables, and a large dog sleeping on her back. It can on occasion sport empty coffee mugs, dog hair, books sitting on every available surface, or newspapers left scattered on the furniture. But nowhere that you look does it, or will it ever, have glass table tops, shiny stainless steel anything, porcelain dolls, collectable plates, chandeliers, or highly polished crap of any sort.

“Hello mother,” I say taking the suitcase from her hands. “I’m glad you could make it.” She gives me a quick peck on the cheek.

“How long is it going to be before they finish the road to your house?” she asks as way of a greeting.

I’m confused for just a second. “Oh the dirt road,” I say. “That is just the way it is. It is finished.”

She opens her purse and pulls out a small box that holds a folded pair of shoes then slips them on her feet. She follows me into the kitchen but I can feel her eyes peering into every corner as we pass by. “I love your house,” she says. “It’s so rustic.”

Rustic is actually code for crapola in my mother’s world. “Why thank you mom,” I say. “I love it too.”

She snaps a piece of paper towel from the roll and wipes down a barstool before she gingerly settles into it. “Did you know that Raoul has an office in the city nearby,” she says innocently.

“Forget it mother,” I say. “Neither Raoul, or any of his minions, are allowed anywhere near my house.”

She snorts quietly. “Minions? You make it sound like he’s Satan,” she says. “He happens to be the most sought after interior decorator on this side of the country. You cannot argue about his talent, just look at the miracle he worked at Julliette Estate.”

Julliette Estates is what mother called her house. “Miracle,” I say. “More like the ninety ninth level of the abyss. And I wasn’t calling him Satan he’s more like Cthulhu.”

She lifts her eyebrow at me. “Cah-lulu? Is he that new decorator from Brazil that everyone is talking about?” She pulls a thick pile of Better House and Homes from her briefcase and lays them on the island.

I walk around to her side and grab the pile then walk to the back door and lift the lid on the large garbage can in the corner. There is a resounding thump as the magazines hit the bottom of the can. “How many times are we going to have to go over this mother?” I ask as we eye each other like two gunslingers waiting for the other to make the first move.


Marc said...

Greg - yeah, well, I'm about ready to close up shop too. Unfortunately, business is still going until the end of the month.

Hah, love that you followed up mine like that. Barry sure knows how to pick 'em, huh?

Cathryn - it's always more satisfying when you've got an active role in these things. Glad it's worked out so far :)

Iron Bess - great to see you around here. Very pleased to see you writing with us again :)

I think I'd be much happier in the home that's actually been lived in as well. I think the back and forth between mom and daughter perfectly captures their differences.

And that concluding imagery is just spot on.

All in all, just makes me hope that you're able to pop in more regularly :)

But, obviously, I completely understand why that might not be the case. Best wishes with everything going on right now.