Interior Disaster
You know, when we bought this house 5 1/2 years ago, I had dreams of how wonderful it would look. Visions of Home & Garden and Southern Living reporters clamoring for interviews and tours danced in my head. Who was I kidding? I should just be happy that the place is not blue anymore. At some point in time in this city there must have been a HUGE sale on blue paint. I'm not talking a breezy light blue, or an interesting navy accent color. Oh no. I'm talking about a Williamsburg blue color, which should only be experienced in small doses.
The Little One's room was painted what we've taken to calling "that blue" (say it with disgust in your voice). The master bedroom was...you guessed it, "that blue." The great room was...yes again, "that blue." To top it all off, the cabinet doors in my white kitchen are...say it with me, "that blue." And yes my friends, when we purchased the house there were no fewer than four gallon cans of "that blue" paint left in our garage. Oh, and my office? Guess what color that was. NOPE. It was blaze orange. I swear. From the street, when the light was on and the blinds were closed this room looked like it was on fire. In the last five and a half years things have improved slightly. The first room painted, before we ever moved a stick of furniture in, was my office because it made me queasy. The Little One's room was the next to change because she was adamant that she could not live and breath in a blue room. Two years ago my family surprised me by painting the great room a rather normal eggshell color. That's about as far as I have gotten.
I have recently resigned myself to the fact that I did not inherit the decorating gene. My birth mother is amazing. No matter where she has lived, no matter what her budget, her home is a showplace of design genius. You would think that I might have received it through osmosis from my adoptive mother. Her homes have always been tastefully decorated (not to mention clean). Did I at least learn from her? Nope. Not one creative chromosome in my body. Apparently it skips a generation.
The Little One has decided that she is an interior decorator. I am rather flabbergasted by this turn of events. You see she can barely pick the debris up off her floor. How can she paint and hang things on walls when she cannot get to them? This doesn’t faze her. She just climbs over the piles of crap and tapes things to the walls. The real plaster walls. With packing tape. Do you have any idea what packing tape does to real plaster walls? Trust me, if you are a Martha Stewart type, you don't want to know. It might send you into cardiac arrest. Recently, she has taken to rearranging her furniture. A lot. A whole lot. EVERY day. It sounds like a bowling alley during midnight drunk & bowl (I mean Rock 'N Bowl) up there. C. & I have actually discussed attaching rollers to her furniture. I now avoid entering her room after dark for fear of cracking my shins on something. If she doesn't outgrow this soon, I'm going to turn her loose on the great room. If nothing else, at least the pounding in my head should stop.
As far as the rest of the house? I am an optimist, my friends. I know someday my home will be a showplace of design excellence. We have 24 and a half years left on the mortgage – I've got time.
The Little One's room was painted what we've taken to calling "that blue" (say it with disgust in your voice). The master bedroom was...you guessed it, "that blue." The great room was...yes again, "that blue." To top it all off, the cabinet doors in my white kitchen are...say it with me, "that blue." And yes my friends, when we purchased the house there were no fewer than four gallon cans of "that blue" paint left in our garage. Oh, and my office? Guess what color that was. NOPE. It was blaze orange. I swear. From the street, when the light was on and the blinds were closed this room looked like it was on fire. In the last five and a half years things have improved slightly. The first room painted, before we ever moved a stick of furniture in, was my office because it made me queasy. The Little One's room was the next to change because she was adamant that she could not live and breath in a blue room. Two years ago my family surprised me by painting the great room a rather normal eggshell color. That's about as far as I have gotten.
I have recently resigned myself to the fact that I did not inherit the decorating gene. My birth mother is amazing. No matter where she has lived, no matter what her budget, her home is a showplace of design genius. You would think that I might have received it through osmosis from my adoptive mother. Her homes have always been tastefully decorated (not to mention clean). Did I at least learn from her? Nope. Not one creative chromosome in my body. Apparently it skips a generation.
The Little One has decided that she is an interior decorator. I am rather flabbergasted by this turn of events. You see she can barely pick the debris up off her floor. How can she paint and hang things on walls when she cannot get to them? This doesn’t faze her. She just climbs over the piles of crap and tapes things to the walls. The real plaster walls. With packing tape. Do you have any idea what packing tape does to real plaster walls? Trust me, if you are a Martha Stewart type, you don't want to know. It might send you into cardiac arrest. Recently, she has taken to rearranging her furniture. A lot. A whole lot. EVERY day. It sounds like a bowling alley during midnight drunk & bowl (I mean Rock 'N Bowl) up there. C. & I have actually discussed attaching rollers to her furniture. I now avoid entering her room after dark for fear of cracking my shins on something. If she doesn't outgrow this soon, I'm going to turn her loose on the great room. If nothing else, at least the pounding in my head should stop.
As far as the rest of the house? I am an optimist, my friends. I know someday my home will be a showplace of design excellence. We have 24 and a half years left on the mortgage – I've got time.
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