Meet Rancho Wrecko. This is not a photo of my house, but almost. I can’t show you my real house because it’s still not wise to reveal my actual location. (Only Google knows exactly where I live.)
I have been in this house for a little while now. I have most of my boxes unpacked. I didn’t have too much because when I married Ida Man the 4th(the last man I will ever marry, and you can quote me on that!), he had much nicer things than me, so my crappy stuff ultimately had to go.
You know how that is. I would bring in a perfectly good knick-knack and place it on the book shelf next to one of his collector items (collected on his travels, not from the discount beanie baby table at the antique mall, either, but from a market in Zimbabwe or Zim-some-where). Anyway he would get that pained look on his face. Oh you know the look, the one that looks like he has need of some Prilosec or Excedrine.
My stuff really wasn’t good enough to cozy up to his. I though he was going to faint when I brought out my shabby-chic crusty-rustys. You would have thought I was introducing the Klingons to the Romulans instead of faded rose toile to modern sterile.
Now I can’t name names here, but I was waylaid, over ruled and de-cluttered down to my distressed linens by an interior designer with pointy shoes and a fake accent.
Her work has been shown in magazines. What work? Did she sew the cushions? Did she lay the expensive carpet? No, she waltzed around spending my ex-husbands money buying art work that made no sense, making me feel stupid for owning my grandmothers footstool.
Here at Rancho Wrecko, I am the interior designer, the dust bunny catcher and the decision maker. Oh, god, didn’t George Bush say something to that effect? When I start quoting W, it’s time for me to go lower my blood pressure.
I usually do that with an adult beverage. Ya'll have a happy Saturday!
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