My dad worked as a mechanic for the U.S. Postal Service when I was a kid. His job came with a few advantages. It saved me from walking 30 or so feet down the driveway to mail a letter. Now that I’m thinking about it, this probably exacerbated my innate desire to be the laziest 8-year-old to ever roam the face of this planet (Hey, if you’re going to do something, go for it all the way, I say).
On occasion, he would save magazines that were deemed “Undeliverable” and bring them home for us kids. I always requested home design magazines. I clipped out pictures of beautiful things and articles on How To Make Your Home Feel Lived In But Still Look Perfect Even Though You Got A Tight-Ass Budget And Some Stupid-Ass Kids Who Put Their Grimy-Ass Hands Everywhere And I Mean Everywhere.
I would spend hours cutting out pictures and then taping the front and back of each picture with rows of Scotch Tape. I would double tape the areas with small gaps, making the picture harder to see, but I wanted my pictures to stay protected so I could use them as references when I became a Katrillionaire Adult. I asked for a laminator, but my parents always had some excuse about not spending on unnecessary luxuries. It was during one of these NO‘s that I quietly decided I would never invite my parents over to my Teal Palace to admire my semi-circle headboards or Laura Ashley comforters.
It’s a shame that all of those hours clipping and taping didn’t actually cultivate a keen eye for design or functionality. That BLING nook looks pretty cozy, amirite? Too bad no one can sit in that chair without knocking into the sloped wall. Yeah, I tried pulling the chair out already. I promptly tripped over one of the legs and almost lost my front teeth. I’ve still got braces on for another year. Think about how much my orthodontist would hate me. “What the hell, Elizabeth, I can tell THESE ARE CHICLETS.”
I finally fulfilled my childhood wish of owning a white sectional. It doesn’t have a La-Z-Boy at the end like my home-laminated picture, but it’s white. I wish I could tell you more about it, but you know how it is: You buy a white couch and suddenly, you tell your family that it’s better to sit on the stone floor because “something about spinal alignment,” and then you don’t sit on it either, because you want to have a straight and healthy spine too. One time, you accidentally brush against the corner while wearing dark-rinse denim, and you immediately fall to the floor with your arms raised, asking the Universe to turn back time just 7 seconds, to that moment before the lily white fabric absorbed any of the deep blue pigment. You cry about it a lot that day. A little less the next day. In a month’s time, you feel okay. Not perfect, just…okay.
Life is for living. Couches are for sitting. Wow, that’s really beautiful. And I just made that up right now, too. I want to live comfortably in my home. I want to put my grimy-ass hands everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
Any decorating disasters or regrets? Ever sullied something in your home that you love?
BLING pic: Another sad moment captured on Instagram (username: flourishinprogress)
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