I’m reading Wicked, by Gregory Maguire, and I am enjoying it so far. I enjoyed this little passage, which inspired today’s blog post.
“She has become addled. Ama Clutch, on occasion, gets confused as to what has Life and what doesn’t. She will sit and talk to, oh, say, a chair, and then relate its history back to us. Its aspirations, its reservations -”
“Its joys, its sorrows,” said Madame Morrible. “How truly novel. The emotional life of furniture. I never.”
Armoire
Ugh. This is ridiculous. Unbelievable. Just atrocious.
It’s my own fault, really. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up so high.
But then again, it makes perfect sense that I have high expectations. I was built in 1754 by a craftsman that has not seen his equal! Am I being over zealous in saying that? Perhaps. Perhaps. But then again, for the past six years I was surrounded by discarded Ikea furniture (gag me) in a forgotten about antique store in Payson, Arizona.
That would be like Frank Sinatra being holed up in Payson, Arizona, depriving the world of his talent. Oh, hey self, why Sinatra? Oh, gee, self, maybe because the stupid shop owner played the same Sinatra songs EVERY DAY. My God woman, do you have no short term memory? Three Coins in a Fountain is good, but please, for the love of my ornately carved self, cut out that music.
And then … and then well dressed man in his fifties appeared. He had immaculate taste. I could be subtle and leave it at that, but I won’t. He had immaculate taste: which is why he noticed me.
Two days later I’m in his home. Life is finally looking up. I kept daydreaming about the various treasures he would store in my storied, beautiful cabinet.
And then … and then … then came the tiny guns. These “Nerf” guns. Some “super soaker.” Abysmal. Tragic. Disgusting.
It made no sense. Why would this person, who clearly recognized my talents, be doing this? He knows better! He knows how beautiful I am.
Then I got it – I was some weird trophy dedicated to the word “kitsch.” I was kitsch, personified. I was here as a joke. The nail was really hammered into the coffin the first time he hosted a party after having “decorated” me (I shudder to use that word considering what he’s using me for).
Someone said, “wow! What a beautiful armoire!” (I admit, I had been waiting to hear this. I was very delighted when the words were finally spoken.)
“Oh,” the host said casually, opening the cabinet doors to display the gaudy toy guns inside, “you mean my armoire-y?”
The laughter. Oh, the laughter.
I hate this man.
DumbFunnery 