As I’ve previously related, I alternate drinking months and non-drinking months; but on my non-drinking month, I allow one happy hour a week, which I understandably look forward to. Last week before my libatious evening I bought a bottle of vodka, which is my current drink of choice. This week I relax in the knowledge that last week’s supply will last for a while, but when I go to pour, there’s barely enough for a single weak vodka tonic.
“You drank my vodka?” I ask David, rightfully incensed.
“It didn’t have your name on it,” is his annoyingly immature response.
Wanting your vodka and not getting it isn’t a thing a person gets over easily. But I gain control by reminding myself that at least I’m not dead; and there’ll be other evenings and other drinks.
So today one of our errands is to go to the liquor store and buy enough vodka that on my next week’s drinking evening I won’t be disappointed. Maybe I’ll buy a case of the damned stuff. On the way to Spec’s, David and I stop by our friend’s home renovation to see how things are going. You know the house—the lilac one with the colorful cow beneath the trellis at the intersection of F and Sixth. The redo’s been going on for eight months.
And oh my, you would not believe the things she’s done with that hundred-and-thirty-year-old home. So faithful to the era has she been in the construction of the addition that it’s impossible to tell where the new sections begin. The kitchen, which was the size of a closet, is now massive and high-ceilinged. Throughout the house the doorjambs, window frames, and cabinetry are handmade, with carvings, curves, and curlicues. She speaks reverently of her carpenter, who’s evidently a true guru of wood.
Every room is a different color, not beige and not pastel, but bold shades of green, turquoise, and purple. When I cross from one room to another, one color to another, it’s like entering a fresh mood or receiving an intriguing message.
She is ebullient in her room-by-room tour. She enthuses tirelessly about the house and her plans and I’m thrilled for her that she’s going to be surrounded by the appliances, floors, light fixtures, and colors that she has chosen.
In the guest room she’s perpetrated a sunup to sundown theme. The alcove nearest the window is pale blue accented with fluffy clouds; and from this side of the room to the other the blue gradually deepens until it’s a dense indigo; and high on the darker wall is a fluorescent full moon that will glow at night. It will be a sight to see when driving by—an indoor moon!
In the adjoining bathroom she motions toward a modest expanse of drywall behind which she has arranged a grinning skeleton sitting in a chair, surrounded by editorials, political cartoons, toilet paper, and masks. She’s taken all the painful detritus of 2020 and hidden it away, her unique personal shrine to the turmoil and angst of our year—a healthy way for an artistic soul to handle pain.
“I’ll be happy to think of you in this house,” I tell her.
It makes her smile
I’ve done the same thing with houses—not the house we’re in now. The walls of this house are so neutral that I’d be pressed to name the shade. But in the past I’ve had sunny yellow living rooms and periwinkle kitchens and mottled tree-top bedrooms. I’ve had checkerboard floors and flowered stair frontages. And with every attempt to personalize and bring color to my world, there was a nay-sayer hovering in the background telling me that I was making a major decorating mistake.
“You’ll have to completely redo it before it’ll sell,” from one.
“You’re inflicting your taste on everyone who enters your home,” from another.
These days I’ve calmed down a bit. I love this house and the color, or lack thereof, suits it. Also, I promised David that I wouldn’t go crazy painting the walls this time, though they’re dated with that textured look that was a big thing a while back. I figure if I wait long enough it’ll come back around.
There’s one touch in our home, though, that I don’t think I’ll be able to tolerate much longer—and seeing our friend’s lovely house with her gorgeous and unexpectedly thematic chandeliers has served to enhance my disdain. The atrocity I’m talking about is the ornate fixture that’s suspended by a heavy chain and looms over our dining room table like a spiky wrecking ball. And here I must be tactful because someone I know may have the exact same chandelier hanging in their dining room. It’s a common design. And I don’t want to insult taste or hurt feelings simply because I prefer delicate fixtures and I don’t care for the fake candle look—inevitably one or two of the holders goes wonky.
So after we hit the Specs we stop by a local light fixture store. But it’s not open, which is the way of things these days. Nevertheless, this crusade has just begun, and I will persist in my search for the perfect chandelier. I’ll check out a few recommended websites and get by one of the showrooms in Austin. Meanwhile, I’ll simply continue doing what I’ve been doing for the last five years, which is to avoid looking at the thing and concentrate on the artistic pieces and paintings and fixtures that I do like.
Overwhelming. I’ve been complacent long enough!
Taken a couple of months ago. The skirt is now covered with handmade shingles which will be painted to match the house. The red touches are unexpected.
Whoa! Some artistic designer’s pride. Too busy for me.
I have no idea what I’m looking for, but this isn’t it.
A grouping of three of my favor artsy possessions. The oil, by Vietnamese artist, Lam Manh. The African busts, purchased in Kenya over thirty-five years ago. The antique bowl, from Singapore. I look at these things when the clunky chandelier gets me down.
