I walked into the jungle hoping to be bitten by a snake. Hazard of the trade.
Ever since Moroccan Dream and Dungeon Chic were replaced by Jungle Touches, the interior decorating business has been a much more dangerous game. It used to be the worst we encountered was turbulence in an airplane lavatory, jetting to Andorra for a one-of-a-kind music box.
Now it’s straight into the breach, hoping to emerge victorious with a jaguar pelt or a hand-carved idol of dubious origins. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to smuggle a few palm frond seedlings back in my underwear. But the coup d’etat would be that snakeskin, and I’m using my well-sculpted calves as bait.
A scar would be a nice touch too—a large one on the back of my leg that people will ask me about at the gym. The best decorators have scars. Mitzi lost a finger to a hippopotamus.
What people don’t know is that interior decorating is the glue that holds our nation’s psyche together. It gives people the most important thing of all: a sense of home. It’s in the details. For some, it’s grandma’s candlesticks on the mantle. For others, it’s a petrified monkey carcass dressed in authentic Turkish garb. Home.
My own home growing up had an Eau de Vodka with accents of Floral Despair. My psychiatrist says what I’m doing is just redecorating my childhood, over and over. He says my risk-taking will never solve my more deep-seated issues. He also asked me to pick him up an exotic beetle if I saw one.
Front page image by Anita Carril.
GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here: