[img]1325|left|Alex Campbell ||no_popup[/img]Dateline Boston — Last week, after I wrote an essay about how my mom and I used trash pickings to decorate our humble abodes, H and I went to a fancy party. The hosts had just bought and beautifully restored a huge Victorian house. We went through the whole place, admiring the woodwork and fireplaces. The house looked like something out of Architectural Digest.
H and I knew no one at this party. As wait staff walked around with platters of food, I made eye contact with a woman and her husband. Whenever I try to break into conversation with strangers, I usually comment on their clothing as an icebreaker. This time I not only broke the ice, it melted all over the floor.
We introduced ourselves, and I commented on the festive top the woman was wearing—it had broad horizontal stripes, gold and red, and it was all sequined. Being a sucker for shiny things, so I complimented her on it. Then I said, “Look at this gorgeous house!” I swept my hand across the room to indicate grandeur. Then I said, “I’m a writer, and I just wrote an essay about how my family likes to take things out of the trash and decorate with them.” The woman looked stunned, and started blinking a lot, a frozen smile pasted on her face. The man chuckled. As I finished my sentence, it occurred to me what I had just said, and I tried to soften the blow. “I mean, they certainly didn’t do that here!” I added weakly. We excused ourselves and went to sit on the gorgeous couches no one else was sitting on.
Later on, as we were getting our coats from the coat closet, we ran into our festive friends again. The man said, “Oh, look, it’s the trashy people!” H and I cracked up—this guy got it, and was really funny. His wife looked mortified. Let’s hope that we’re not invited to a special event this week, or I’ll have to tell them this story.
Ms. Vaillancourt may be contacted at snobbyblog@gmail.com
