My parents were just in town and my mother often feels the need to jab at my piss poor interior design skills. When I first moved in, I bought a bunch of cheap 4x6 frames and sloppily hung pictures over my sofa. In my head, it was going to look really cool, not to mention showcase my undeniable popularity. I was told it looked crappy and I needed a piece of art up there instead. I decide trendy people seem to always find stuff at vintage stores. You know those people who respond to a compliment on their decorum with, “Oh that?! I got it at this resale boutique in Santa Barbara years ago!” So I went to this vintage store in Little Ethiopia because I knew it would sound sooo cool to say I got a painting there. I found one that matched the pillows on my sofa and the rest is history:
Yes, it’s a barn. No, it has absolutely no remote relation to where I live. Oh, maybe it reminds me of home? Wrong again. We were beach people and even the farms in ‘bama don’t look like this. And I grew up in a paved neighborhood. I don’t know why it spoke to me (it matches the pillows) but it did. Now I regret it because I desperately want my mother’s approval. I can’t take it down though; it’s covering all the holes in the wall created by the picture frame fiasco.
