interiors for idiots

Interiors for Idiots

You can imagine MJE’s surprise upon opening this week’s Sunday NYT Magazine and finding  the house where MJE and the OB&C got married! Back in the day, it belonged to my stepfather Monsieur Zero whom my mother had married in the vain hope that he would provide her with a carefree existence of travel and easy living. Sadly she neglected to conduct an adequately thorough due diligence prior to the I Do’s or she would have discovered that M. Z still had his third grade lunch money and his idea of travel was a drive downriver in his Dodge Valiant for a weekend of fishing at his moth eaten camp on Bay Roquette.

The house had not been renovated since the beginning of time when we moved in. The spirit of the old south lived on in the kitchen which was the only room in the house without benefit of air conditioning. It was a glorious architectural treasure of 14’ cypress doors and windows,  elegantly proportioned rooms, interesting nooks and crannies and an attic that Anne Frank would die for. When me ole muddah used to get a snootful, which was pretty much all the time, she would flounder through the house slamming those big ass doors one after another making the huge windows rattle like a CAT 5 was blowing in.

But now some aging groovsters from New York have taken possession of the manse and tricked it out as some sort of post modern magnum opus. The beautiful rooms have been chopped up, the small drawing room where we used to enjoy countless cocktails has been converted to a bathroom and the industrial kitchen would be right at home in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The swimming pool now resembles a dark swamp and the dining room is furnished with nothing more than a red ping pong table. The family members enjoy a “gentle chaos” which somehow translates into the children wearing nothing but their underpants throughout. The family portrait is a picture of solipsistic chic although the madam coyly declines to show her face. Perhaps she’s in a witness protection program. Maybe that’s why they decamped NY.

It surely makes my head ache to think how hard those people worked to establish their obvious innate hipster bonafides.

http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/07/15/paul-sara-ruffin-costello-home-new-orleans/

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