“Our grand tapestry depicts the handwritten poem ‘Le Temps a Laissé Son Manteau,’ expertly printed on canvas.”
“Borrowing the intricate rococo flourish from an antique mirror, this grand pinboard elegantly frames a rotating display of photos, notes and treasured mementos.”
Who are these infants who have treasured mementos to display on thousand dollar pinboards whilst I, an adult lady, is scouring Amazon for the best deal on chalk so I can write YOU’RE OUT OF COFFEE JERKS on the square of chalkboard paint the tenants before us put there (and by “put” I mean “spun around in a circle with their eyes closed while holding a wet paintbrush, stumbling toward whatever wall they happened to be facing, and then moving the paintbrush-wielding arm in a rough approximation of a rectangle”)? A “distressed canvas play tent” for three hundred dollars? THAT IS A TEEPEE. And for three hundred dollars I hope it comes with a bedtime story about how all the real teepees were burned down. Or ruined with scalp blood. Or however history went, I don’t know, I just feel like little Harlow or Max or whoever ought to know that there used to be zero dollar teepees to play in before SOMEBODY rubbed smallpox on everything.
I was waiting in line to give the nice admissions people at the MoNH laughably, laughably less than the suggested admission the other day when the mom standing behind me with her child spotted an outlet in a far corner. The speed and force at which she sent that kid toward that corner was such that I honestly, honestly thought that she could see the Virgin Mother floating above it. It was truly as though we were twelve weeks into an Odysseyen trek toward a tree bed and that outlet was a sexy, sexy siren. And then when the outlet didn't work - my brothers and sisters, I kid thee not when I tell you: There was actual anguish on the mother's face. Real, unadulterated anguish. Anyway it's moments like that I try to keep in mind when it feels like everyone has more money than me for distressed toy boxes full of iPads for each of their five kids' separate bedrooms in the apartments that they are somehow owners of while I live in near-constant fear that my converted-from-a-boarding-house one-bedroom over the bridge will be taken away from me because why would I be allowed to stay somewhere I love so much?
("Oh, that Lindsay. She really flew too close to the sun with her middling admin job and those windows that don't fit any of the standard-sized curtains sold in the tri-state area. She should have known it was all too good to be true when the desk people at Urgent Care were shocked into whispered conversations by how high her copay was. It was only a matter of time before the universe said it was just kidding and set everything on fire and exposed how terrible everything actually was supposed to be. She was 100% right to be so constantly worried.")
Someday soon I ought to actually read one of those emails from the cringe-y rotund woman at work about 401Ks, and perhaps funnel some of my amazon-cat-art-and-cigarette money into one. Someday less soon I would like to make a tiny Mexican-Lindsay hybrid. I'll keep it away from outlets as a general rule, I think, at least for a while, but I might distress a dresser drawer or two. For now though, what I want is to sit by this open window and watch the people walk by and listen to Nick Drake for as many hours as I want to, because nobody needs me to wipe their butt just yet.
