Today I am grateful I don’t live in a glass house. This week I had a little too much time on my hands and a remote control with a new battery. Not a good combination. I stumbled upon a show on HGTV called, Extreme Homes. Wow.
There were yerts and trulee’s (look them up) and bunkers and caves and treehouses and whatnot, where people “feel so at home” and live. I saw a small apartment made to look like a palace with added pillars and gold gilding and ugly ornate, plaster flowers everywhere. Cool for her. Not for me. There was a mountain house that looked like a ship and a house in the trees made out of part of an old 747. Some of these architects could take my trash and make a house out of it. Pizza boxes for shelves, soup cans for windows and popcorn hulls for texture. See how trendy I am?
One had no steps, but ramps everywhere with no railings. Talk about a liability waiting to happen. I could make a fortune off of my own homeowner’s insurance. I got vertigo just watching the program on TV. . .from a solid chair. . .not a rocker. It looked like it was made out of angry stiletto’s with a macabre, sadistic attitude. Or maybe that was just the architect.
I’m odd, yet most of these places are too odd for even me. I’d love to visit them but no way would I want to live in them. Especially the glass house. I love nature. I love my house. I love windows. I love walls. I’m fond of doors on the bathroom. I have no desire to commune with a squirrel, bears and deer while I’m sitting on the pot. Remember, I’m all done camping unless it’s in a Holiday Inn. Glass house folks are whacky. There, I said it. Send me a rebuttal letter. All I see are poor birds smashing themselves trying to fly through the house. Ick.
The owners of glass houses go ooohh and ahhhh over how much sun comes in their homes all day long. I had a power surge and needed to be dipped in ice water. They marvel how great it is to live minimalist, which I guess means you don’t have any crap at all except one tall vase of perfect gladiolus, which is the only color in the whole place, except for the “nature” that oozes in from all sides from three story windows. No paintings. No color. No thank you.
If I lived in a glass house how could I put my shirt in the washer, get distracted and eventually walk to the bedroom for another shirt? Where would I put all of the junk from my basement if I tried to live minimalist? Where are their books? Their box of tissues? Their remote control? Their nail clipper, dental floss, pens for the easy puzzle and pencils for the hard ones? Don’t they have a phone or a pillow for their aching back? I don’t trust a house without a dish rag!
I love big windows until I have to wash them. I don’t like closed curtains either but when the new stop light blinks across the bed, like a lighthouse. . .every 20 seconds. . .(yes, I counted one night, all night). . . enough! No minimalist for me and no glass house, either and I am grateful. I’ll take my modest amount of clutter, my soft, brown woods and the textures of my travels surrounding me any day!