Pre-worn leather furniture on cowhide rugs. Old foreign trinkets that pique curiosity but not memories. Finger paint art in gilded frames. Marble philosophers with vacant eyes and stiff hair. Some things too ornate, others expensively plain.
Even their children seem like living accessories-- growing collectibles whose main purpose is to warrant an oversized house.
They are an attractive power-couple. More put together than I could ever hope to be.
Him: George Clooney's suave meets Brad Pitt's hair. Add a pinstriped sports jacket to dark wash jeans. A distinguished grey with professionally whitened teeth. Hospitable upon request, but not naturally. He has it all and knows it. This recent outgrowth of yuppie pursuits unsettles him to the core, reducing purpose to pretentiousness and servitude to show with lots of tell.
She, for her part, is ostensibly Italian. Beauty, mannerisms, dress, complexion, charisma. But no flourish. No spark of joy without coaxing. Her movements are floundering; a fish out of water doing its best to breathe air. She has subdued herself to his dreams. She misses her parents more than the best tomato sauce could ever convey. Here, she is reduced to half a spirit, and this adventure Americana has become a desperate search for anything familiar. She too has begun to realize that no amount of wine and kickshaws could ever make this home, but its not for lack of trying.
After petting the dog and mentioning thirst, I am offered filtered water or fizzy water. Aqua frizzante it is. There is no discussion of the two dependents sleeping above us. She rushes upstairs to powder her face, and he takes the opportunity to show off his new stereo system. I am lost in bubbly water and contemporary Jefferson Airplane. Of course my first instinct is to spill all over my shirt, which I disguise admirably. After dabbing at my chest with a burlap pillow, I wander the house awkwardly while my employer entertains a British chum with similar grooming habits. My ears are impressed, but I sense that my opinion on vintage turntables is inconsequential. I begin to feel like yet another accessory, so I bite my tongue and let the water tickle my nose away from snootiness. I turn then to the strangest art I have ever seen. It is a conversation piece, at best. A demon's nightmare at worst. Besides the myriad of non-plastic designer toys, this place feels inhospitable to sticky fingers and sibling rivalries. Kids, it seems, were an afterthought. Or perhaps far to planned?
After a few minutes of grooming each other, Brad and Angelina leave in a hurry to dine across the street. A trial run for me, apparently. From one place with nice things to another place with nice things, though somehow I doubt she will care for the meal. When you are raised on Strega Nona's homemade pasta, even the best that metropolitan market has to offer tastes like shit. Which makes me laugh, actually. But only for a second, because in all this finery I too have forgotten that there are two small children sleeping upstairs and that I am here to guard their dreams of ipads and leather bound books and stainless steel and treasures not to touch.
Part of me wonders if I should have come more prepared. This feels more like nightshift at the Louvre than babysitting, and I wonder if I should be patrolling with a weighted maglight. The dog, of course, is no help. Obviously starved for attention, he is more likely to fend off an intruder with bad breath than ferocity. At best, he might stall them with desperate hugs and kisses. Useless.
So its really just me here, with my unintelligent phone and glass of flattened Pellegrino.
Don't get me wrong. I am not angry, nor am I bitter. People have nice things, and that is great for them. Heck, I have nice things. I appreciate the work that it took to acquire and display them so artfully. I enjoy looking at things from a different time, a different land, a different perspective. People have nice things and they like that about themselves. Good for them. Good for me.
But after spending a weekend in the simplicity of home, I am reminded once more; that's just not my best.
I was born in mess, I live in mess, and I will die a glorious mess.
Despite a tone of mild annoyance, the past few hours have not emblazoned permanent disdain upon my face, but have instead strengthened my desire for something else.
When I have a home, there will be no untouchables. Nothing so valuable that it cannot be treasured by tiny hands. There will be leather bound books and paperback books and children's books jumbled together--probably all with juice stains-- and they will share many many shelves and we will read them. Walls decorated with things we think are beautiful and things our children create and scuff marks from wrestling matches and coloring endeavors. We will sit on the kitchen floor for the deepest talks. There will be messes made and messes that don't get cleaned up until days later. Dusting will be easy. Keeping animals out of the house will not. My children will be loved enough to be disciplined, and just poor enough to share.
My house will not have an abundance of niceties, but it will be filled with joy. I dream of a house where the highest and the lowest are made welcome. A space where even the wanderer can feel at home. A place that knows it's place.
Until that day, I will continue getting paid to do homework in this quasi-gallery, and I will enjoy my fill of fizzy or filtered water with these delicious imported organic apples.
But hear you me, and hear me clear: you can't keep this girl under a bell jar, and these nice things will outlive us all.
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