true friendship: blue suede shoes and Chaucer
Sometimes I just really want to shoot people.
Case in point: my husband and I had finally completed furnishing our house with the proud purchase of a Queen Anne writing desk - a delicate piece of art upon which the lady of the manor writes letters, plans menus and the like. Not that I had anyone to write to or was inspired enough to drastically change my "frozen pizza" method of cooking; nonetheless, the romantic possibilities sat firmly in my living room on four daintily curved legs.
All ambience was shattered by the raucous laugh of my friend since childhood, Joan. Her thigh slapping rattled my faux turn-of-the-century prints of "Lady in a Row-Boat with Dog" and "Parisien Ladies Sipping Tea", and nearly toppled the carefully careless arrangement of dry-flowers-in-a-decorative-basket placed just so on the marble-topped end table.
Painfully polished brass drawer handles shivered slightly in the office alcove, the antique walnut table holding ground bravely, although the wood may have paled slightly. The once peacefully sleeping cat, though admittedly not my unearthly blue Egyptian statue, disappeared into the elements.
Real lace intricately designed curtains, a loving gift from in-laws in Poland, arching ever so gracefully in the absolute centre of the bay window, undulated rather wildly as the front door slammed resoundingly.
Even the small mirror-backed matching mahogany display cabinet, securely set up on a spot-lit wall and painstakingly filled with just the right amount of little Chinese-style artifacts, was in imminent danger of becoming dislodged and crashing to the floor.
Joan stomped over the brand-new plush olive green wall-to-wall carpet, her motorcycle boots leaving great Bigfoot indentations with treads. She hurled head first onto the just-delivered embossed love-seat, lovingly angled to perfection in a corner, the now trembling gold standing lamp a la francaise softly highlighting tufts of streaked blond, red and black hair sticking out from under Joan's ever-present baseball cap.
I rushed to save sailing arm covers and re-fluff matching cushions into right angles.
"HAR! HAR!" she was wheezing, "You're killing me. You really are! First tole-painting, then knitting, and now... now..." She collapsed, holding her sides, moaning softly.
"Now, what?" I glared at the spectre who dared to shove herself back onto the couch using a fragile accent-only footstool.
"This place is worse than my grandmother's!" she shrieked. "HAR! HAR! What's happened to you?! You used to have TASTE! You used to be YOUNG! HAR! HAR! What is THIS?!" she was pointing at a Renaissance child print, and almost fell over again.
"WELL, IT'S NOT ELVIS!" I roared back, hoping to shut her up by disparaging her favourite decorating scheme.
It didn't work, though.
Joan just screamed again: "Damn right, it ain't Elvis!"
When she recovered nearly enough to be able to walk, I made Joan go home. But first I forced her to read "The Earthly Paradise" by Morris (in Chaucerian metres) out loud accompanied by Vivaldi's "Adagio molto in B minor".
At my Queen Anne desk, of course.
About the Author
Stephanie Olsen is owner of Family Life Abroad: the expatriate place, where you'll find informative and humorous articles by experienced expatriates on all aspects of living abroad, plus links, travel tips and more.