2 min

The decorating gene

When friends stage furniture interventions

My friends breathed a communal sigh of relief when I told them most of my furniture wasn’t coming to my new apartment.

Once I admitted how much I hated my furniture, it was like a veil had been lifted and they were free to talk openly about it like I had a drug problem.

I have more T-cells than decorating genes, or any other gay gene featured on the cover of Martha Stewart Living.

Ironically, my father was a green thumb. He gave Premier Bill Davis advice with his roses. Not bad for a janitor.

Dad was always trying to get me to help him in the garden but I was too busy jacking off to wrestling on TV. When I think of the money I could be making and all the sex I could be having… oh, and a relationship with my father, of course.

“Tell me you’re getting rid of that hideous Billy bookcase!” Three people said this to me and always by its IKEA name, Billy. They also recommended I get rid of my books.

“But they’re signed.”

“Think of the space.”

I did. It was lovely.

Then I remembered hearing John Waters in This Filthy World saying if you go back to a date’s house and they don’t have any books, get out. “And DVDs don’t count.”

This Pride Day I was galled by the Freedom flags with “Homesense” written across the bottom. It wasn’t insulting enough to have the emblem of our movement defaced by a registered trademark, but they also had to re-enforce the stereotype that fags decorate. Plus, have you been to Homesense? Now I know where furniture goes to die.

 “I want an adult apartment,” I said to my ex.

“Then you’ll have to get rid of everything.”

Everyone I asked for decorating advice agreed. It’s amazing how quickly people resort to tough love when it comes to where to put your couch.

A friend took me to Pottery Barn for dishes. “You can get a catering box of 12 plates for $72,” said the saleswoman. “So when you’re having a function you don’t have to rent them.” Because I’m always hosting functions.

“They’re just for me in my tiny studio apartment.”

“Now I’m a little worried,” she said, stepping back like I was the Unabomber.

My ex asked me if I had a tape measure.

“What for?”

“To hang your pictures.”

No wonder my walls always looked like they belonged on the Titanic. “Why can’t I decorate?” I wondered out loud.

“To keep homos like me employed.”

At the “reveal” my friends were dutifully impressed. Watch, five years from now, they’ll be staging another intervention.