I hadn't realized how much visiting Eric's house the other day affected me until I found myself sitting in the doctor's office today wondering which magazine to read...and reaching for the Architectural Digest. That's what his house looked like: a spread in a magazine like that. Overstuffed green velvet couch under a Renaissance painting of Salome with John the Baptist's head. Deep burnt orange hues on the walls of one room, clashing vigorously with deep magenta in the next--and it works. Brass fixtures. Antiques. Yards of ancient books in glass-doored cabinets.
This style is not to be confused with the style of where I live. I live in California Modern. Sleek, sparse, everything in shades of white. (To be fair, Eric's house was white from top to bottom until Wayne hit it with a palette and a design.)
And it's a mess. We've got a lot of stuff. Books, mainly. I didn't know two people could get their hands on so damn many books, but we've done it. Thousands of books, on every topic. I read the mysteries, the historicals, the true crime, and the cinematic. He reads the science and the science fiction and John Mortimer. Whenever we go on vacation, we take one bag of books. We can forget underwear, maps, the tickets...but we know which bag has our books. Darin and I were meant for one another: "Gee, another beautiful two hundred mile stretch of unspoiled California coast...did you bring the new book by Sagan with? Is it in the trunk?"
The place has gotten out of hand recently. We couldn't walk through the bedroom without stumbling into something or other, usually several somethings or other. There was a layer of dust clearly visible everywhere. Inviting friends over became an exercise in chicken--which one of us was going to straighten up first.
We finally decided to seek professional help. The therapist suggested we should have called a cleaning service first. No, no, just kidding--we called the cleaning service first, and then we'll call the therapist (to work on the book addiction thing). The people from the cleaning service just left, and for the first time in a while I can sit in my living room and not think, There's a pile of preternaturally sentient Entertainment Weeklys lurking behind me, waiting to pounce. Which is not to say they're not there; they're simply not clearly visible out of the corner of my eye.
I'm so excited, I'd invite over every I know, except they'd mess the place up and I'd be back at square one.
My friend Tiffany asked if I wasn't worried about letting strangers in to clean up. Of course I am. I am often worried about letting close friends or even family--particularly my family--into the house. But I keep a few things in mind: 1)I have nosy neighbors, they're going to notice strangers making off with our things; 2)people are, on the whole, basically trustworthy; 3)I am about one hundred times too paranoid and it's about time I did some it'll-be-okay exercises.
Besides which, if they take stuff, then that's a little less stuff that we have around here.
Last Updated: 27-Jun-96
©1996 Diane Patterson