Nice
I notice that people here in L.A. say “nice” when they mean… well… I’m not exactly sure what they mean. It’s a stand-alone response. I say something that is perhaps not quite what was expected, and the reaction is a blink, a pause, and “Nice.” I can’t tell yet if it means “I don’t believe you just said that,” or “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” or what.
For example: I am buying a red velvet footstool from a fine (sounding) young man who advertised it on craigslist for a very reasonable price. It’s beautiful, a glowing ruby red, not worn at all, just perfect for my cats.
Try to understand: everything I do, I do for them. I’m a cat lady. When I look at apartments to rent, I’m looking for wide windowsills for my cats to lie on, a backyard for my cats to sun in, closets for my cats to hide in, long wooden-floored hallways for my cats to run and slide on.
And when I hunt for furniture, I’m looking for something cheap enough that, when my cats shred it with their little ivory claws (and they will) I won’t have a coronary. I also look for little beds for them to rest on, baskets for them to curl up in, end tables for them to sit and squint upon.
So when I saw this footstool, I was enthusiastic. I called the young man and we set up a meeting. He assured me that this was a fine footstool, bought at a fashionable boutique, barely used. I said, “Wonderful! I’m buying it for my cats to lie on.”
Pause. “Nice,” he said dryly.
Now I’m paranoid. I think that “nice,” a perfectly good word that fell into disfavor back in the 1980s, has now fallen even further. Now it’s what you say when you find out that your taste in designer footstools is cat fodder.
