Taste Test

I like to think I have good taste. All of us do. I like the way my house is decorated, the clothes in my closet, the "stuff" I am drawn to at Target. I go through life quite certain that my taste is the best taste. Contemporary, but not too trendy. Classic, but not archaic. Clean, but not unliveable. Yes, I am quite certain that my taste is anything but tacky.

But someone out there clearly doesn't feel the way I do. Someone out there is buying the elastic-banded, gag blue denim capri pants at the store (which, I might add, do nothing for your tush--and are they REALLY all that comfortable?). Someone is drawn to mauve and forest green wallpaper borders (the commitment-less wallpaper) to match their Deep Forest Dupont Stainmaster carpet. Someone out there decorates in several shades of my-worst-nightmare! And this someone is every bit as convinced as I am about their taste: it is good.

And I think I know who this person is. My landlady. "Crazy Pat", I'm quite convinced, is growing something illegal (for personal use only, of course) in her greenhouse in the backyard. "Crazy Pat" loves all things tie dye, including her hair which has ranged from a vibrant orange to a vibrant gold to a medley of brown, grey, yellow and orange all at once. "Crazy Pat" has a soft place in her heart for chihuahuas. Currently, we are up to four of the yappers. "Crazy Pat" expressed sorrow of the worst degree after a Jethro Tull concert because her one and only grandson will never have the blessed opportunity that is seeing Jethro live.

Yes, "Crazy Pat" is that special kind of eccentric you can appreciate having in the neighborhood, but living in such close proximity (as, say, her basement) is sometimes a bit much. I can forgive her many yapping chihuahuas. I can forgive her odd conversation. I can forgive her bra-less gardening. But I must express that there is one eccentricity that does me in.

Alice and I lovingly refer to it as "The Gypsy Cart."

Behold, what is only the tip of the iceberg in tacky lawn decor:



It is everywhere. Every nook, every cranny has a little sumpin-sumpin besides organic matter. The tree branches sag under the weight of dangling trinkets, rather than pears or plums. I would find it entertaining, if not for the fact that I live here. The path to my basement entryway is lined with all things tacky.

And so, I have three key words for our kindly (though eccentric) "Crazy Pat."

Less is more, Patty. Less is more.