“Why does my house always look like this?” She stood with her hand resting on the crumb-covered counter. Kook-Aide dribbles trekked across the tile from the sink to the refrigerator. A stack of syrupy plates leaned precariously against an almost empty Mrs. Butterworth’s bottle. Sighing, she turned her back on the chaos and surveyed the living room. Ecru walls, mocha sofa, beige carpeting. Things were far tidier, but the whirlpool of brown sucked the life out of her.
I can recall my teenage self: resentful and wondering WHY teal paint and pictures of horse skulls with rose eye sockets was a bad idea. It may1 have been hideous. But, it is what I wanted.
And because she is awesome, my mother let me paint my walls a dark teal color and hang pictures of various morbid objects d’art in my room. I am sure she looked in there as little as possible. I loved it. My room was my realm, my bastion, my Fortress of Solitude.
As an adult, I crave my house to be a reflection of me; my tastes, personality. In this fantasy, my house is also always sparkling clean.2
Why can’t I have a house that looks like it does in my head?
Well, part of the reason is that I cannot afford it right now. But another part is because I live with other people. It cannot be my Fortress because Solitude means throwing out the other folks that live here. I’m fond of them, so obviously that isn’t the answer.
What we should – and probably will, once we get our finance’s teeth kicked back in – is sit down together and come up with a plan. Paint and furniture and Bon! Put that sledgehammer down RIGHT NOW
…fine. Paint and furniture and no major changes to the structure of the house. New flooring though, please? Yes. Yay! Death to carpeting!
So, we’ll come up with a plan and whirlwind through the house and make it less generic. I can’t wait. My house will have color and art and lots of technology and maybe a Tardis and dear, gods SO MANY BOOKS and no fucking brown, anywhere.
What would YOUR house have, given your druthers?