I decided to return a few duplicate gifts at Macy*s today, and on the way back I thought about the many things I want to do differently this year. There are many, but the primary ones involve the house and, funny enough, what we do outside the house.
I want the house to reflect our personalities more. I think I made a good start with the pink bathroom. It’s not for everyone, and I think that’s what pleases me about it so much. It is nothing you would see in a model home, or at least I hope not. Side note: I admit that for a very long time I wanted nothing more than a house that looked like a model home.
This is also the year to have more family adventures on the weekend. We tend to stay at home, recluses that we are, and Mikey sometimes complains about being bored. Mikey always complains about being bored and, given his usage, we believe he’s not entirely sure what the words means. Nevertheless, from this point forward, Mikey will be bored at museums, shows, and other points of interest.
Inspired by my thoughts, I stopped at the supermarket and bought the LA Times for the Calendar section. I was hovering briefly in a check-out line, looking at magazines and about ready to move on, when I heard some child-centered commotion. I looked up to see the woman in line screaming at her oldest son (around 8 years old), complaining that he was hurting his youngest brother (around 4 years old). The other brother (around 6 years old) was watching the whole scene warily. Well, the oldest boy didn’t move fast enough and the youngeset boy didn’t stop crying so the mom completely and thoroughly lost her marbles. She started squeezing and pinching the oldest’s arm with a look on her face that was contorted with rage. Again and again and again she pinched and pulled and growled obscenities at him, spittle flying from her lips. She never comforted the youngest son.
I decided right then I wasn’t going anywhere. I got close enough to make my presence known and stared directly at her profile, challenging her to look at me. She didn’t. She was too busy insulting and pinching her children, but not enough where a call to the police would do anything more than enrage her more. Still, I know she was aware of my stare and that of the checker, as well. She ignored both of us, paying for her items in between insults and pinches and pulls. If she treats them like that in public, you can only imagine how she is like when no one is looking.
It was upsetting and reminded me of everything I hated about practicing family law.
I came home, made lunch for the family, and started wandering around the kitchen while I waited for everything to finish cooking. While I paced, I fantasized about giving that woman a piece of my mind. In my fantasy I was thinner and could do a mean roundhouse kick, which I used to send her flying into an end-cap display of Campbell’s soup.
I just finished lunch, and despite the power I put into crunching my three taquitos and brown rice, I am still thinking about those boys and their crazy mother. A diversion is imminent.
I found my diversion. My returns at Macy’s netted me a $150 gift certificate. In the spirit of this year’s goal to reveal more of myself with my home, I decided to disclose something at Macy*s I love but, before today, would never admit to online. Let’s just say I never saw it featured on any popular design blogs.
I love this table. There. I said it. I have loved this dining room set for well over a year, closer to two. In fact, Nicole, do you remember when you were pregnant and complaining about your suddenly whimsical taste in design and I told you it only gets worse because I was in love with a table I refused to show you? This is that table. I even dragged The Mister to Ontario to see it in person last year, convinced seeing it in real ife would get it out of my system. Nope! I love it even more. I’ve only shown it to one person other than The Mister, and that was one of my sister-in-laws. She was aghast when she saw the chairs. I believe she said, “That’s a whole lot of Queen Anne.”
I know what you are thinking and, yes, that is hand-painted detailing you see on the chairs. And on the base. And on the table top! Smack my ass and call me Grandma Ruth, I don’t care. It makes me love my little cabriole-legged wonder even more.
So, there you have it. The disclosure of a different kind of abuse, an affront to design aficionados everywhere. Do you hate it? Are you shocked? I warn you–I will not be talked out of loving this dining set. It’s me and faux 18th century British decorate arts, now and forever.
You are welcome to post a link to something awful you love online, too. I assure you it’s quite cathartic.