I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

My mother, my decorator

It's the weekend and my parents have come to visit me downtown.  The usual schedule occurs: they arrive two hours early for lunch (I'm still drinking breakfast); they make their entrances like the whirling dirvishes they are; my father complains about wanting to go home (even before having lunch); we all help in cooking/setting up/cleaning; the three of us collapse in a carb-heavy coma.

Before we head out for coffee, both of my parents sit on the couch.  They're discussing my interior decorating talents, or lack thereof.

"I told him I'd buy him one of those long things," my mother leans forward and extends her hands out, making a rectangle shape.

"You mean an ottoman?" I ask while walking back from the kitchen.

"Yes, like your sister."  My sister has a large ottoman in her family room, but although it works for her space, it wouldn't work for mine.

"I like what I have and this works for me." I say.

My mother scoffs.

"First, the cubes I have work because they have storage inside them.  See?" I lift the lid and show her what I keep hidden in one.  She rolls her eyes.

"Second, I don't have the space to put a large ottoman in my living room."  And I don't since my space is about 100x smaller than my sister's house.

"Third... you don't have any decorating taste."

"You wish!"  She loudly laughs and elbows my father for a reaction.  He also laughs.

This kind of reaction I would understand if my mother was legendary British designer, Nina Campbell, who disdained neutrals (she loves pattern-on-pattern).  But, my mom is not Nina Campbell.  My mom is a woman who thinks 1983 was the best year for design; look at my parents' living/dining/bedroom for proof.

And just like she dismissed my love of minimalism, I dismissed her love of... dismissing my decor.