Tuesday, March 18, 2008

So I says to my bunkmate

So I says to my bunkmate, “Fingers, you gots to see dis.”



And Fingers, rolls over in his bunk, which I can hear from below and I am guessing he stares at what I’m eyeballing and all he says is, “that ain’t good.”

So, I prods him a bit for conversation and I says, “Ain’t that your place, where you lived before we was busted last time? Think they are gonna rearrange all them paintings of poker dogs you got up on the walls?”

And I am guessing he was just nodding only I couldn’t see on account of him being in the upper bunk and me being in the lower one. But again he says, “That ain’t good.”

So, I keeps looking at the television and its one of them home turnover shows where they take one guys lousy taste in decorating his walls and picking furniture and trade it for someone else’s, but there’s always some dame screaming as it happens and everyone hugs afterward. Reminds me of a turf war, but I don’t really get it.

Anyways, on this particular eppy-sode they was taking a run down old house offa Mulberry and they was going to gut it, walls and all and turn it into some kind of yuppie-tarium or something.

“Hey, fingers,” I says at this point, “ain’t that your old joint, where you lived before we came to stay at this fine establishment? Waddn’t that the one you was going to fix up with the loot from our haul.”

Then, like a broken record Fingers comes back to me with, “That ain’t good.”

“I thought you stilled owned that place, oh, hey, ain’t that your sister, Fingers? Ain’t that Phyllis? She don’t look so good no more, ever since you broke her nose. That’s old Philly thought ain’t it?”

Fingers does his line again and I can’t get nothing more from him. Then the show changes - like. Not that it ain’t the same show anymore, but they change the speed and the lights and stuff like that and there is this far away kind of look at the house then, Wham! The whole thing goes up inna ball of flame.

Well, I am hooting and hollering and laughing so hard I nearly shits myself and then I get all quiet and I turns to Finger, even though I knows he can’t see me through the bunk. “Wasn’t that house where you stashed the dough from the last job? You said no one would find it, you promised me Phyllis wouldn’t get it ‘cause you booby trapped the hiding place with a big bomb which… ah, shit.

“That ain’t good.”

-Brihac

Trash my Bath!

I was casually flipping through channels when a familiar pattern of wallpaper caught my eye.

A couple in their early thirties was standing in a fantastic bathroom. The wallpaper was peacock blue and rich Tudor brown and silver leaf, and drawn in intricate Art Nouveau floral designs. The woodworking was dark and rich, and pendant lamps in lapis blown glass hung in delicate drips over the sink and toilet area. The commode and the sink were a royal blue as well - not an easy color to find a toilet in. A rich cobalt tile covered the floor of the bathroom, and extended up the walls of the shower. The whole room was steeped in glimmering glamour. It was stunning. It was decadent.

It was my old house.

My husband and I sold the house two years ago when our kids moved out. We bought a condo and moved south. But I was thrilled to see my design being showcased on this HGTV show and quickly hit the info button on my remote to see why they were highlighting it. I called my husband into the living room and then read the paragraph blurb about the show. As I read, my excitement slowly turned to horror.

The show was called "Trash my Bath!" and it promised demolition of horrid bathroom design and renovation into a new space. Surely they were using my bathroom as a "what to do" on this show. But as I listened to the thirtysomethings in my old house talking about my luxurious bathroom, it became all too clear that it was not praise they were heaping upon my design skills. Adjectives like "hideous" and "nightmarish" and "ghastly" bounced off my beautiful wallpaper - a very expensive paper, mind you - and the thirtysomethings lamented about the "old fashioned" lamps and the "cave-like" darkness of the rich wood in the room.

I was offended. I was aghast. I was horrified when the show's host appeared in a hard hat with a sledgehammer and decimated the beautiful cobalt tiles in the shower. The wood cabinets were gutted and thrown in a dumpster. My pendant lamps were tossed and I nearly cried as I heard the glass break. The wallpaper was scoured and saturated and pulled off, and a blase taupe paint went up where the bold pattern used to be.

In the end, my old bathroom looked like every other bathroom these days - a dull, taupe box with white trim and boring white porcelain fixtures. No imagination, no escapism, no luxury. I could hardly bear it. I snapped off the television and grabbed my purse. There was decorating to be done. I needed to set things right. My husband didn't even blink as I headed out the door to the nearest showroom, in search of new design heights to combat the unimaginative designs of today. I already had a palette in mind - dusty rose, mint green, and gold leaf. And lots of whitewashed wicker. It would be decadent and lush and most certainly not taupe. And then I would have the last laugh.