Sunday, August 23, 2020
Today I am grateful for home designer shows. Oh boy. My house is all wrong. Totally wrong. I have way too much color, fluff and absolutely NO clean, straight lines. Kind of like on my actual body. Not one straight line. Even my fingernails are curved. I guess the house does reflect the person.
I’m now watching a show called “Open House” and I need to wear my sunglasses to do so. Every single thing in some of these entire houses is stark white. I get why you’d want a white kitchen and even sort of wish I had gone that route when we got our house 15 years ago. But everything white? No thanks. Do these people really live there?
I got to thinking back on couches we’ve had in the past and there have been some doozies. My first one was my parent’s old sectional and it was cow-shit brown, with little loops in a sort of a pattern. As a kid I used to rub my fingernails on it. So did my kids. It was made of iron and spilled crap.
Then I wondered how much stress a person with a family has when they have a white couch and all white furniture? DON’T SIT! GET OUT! Would be all I’d ever say. Don’t their kids hide their Hershey’s Kisses wrappers under the couch or down the cushions like mine did? Wouldn’t that leave a chocolate finger streak? Get real.
Does no one eat popcorn or nacho flavored Doritos on those white couches? Do they drink beer, orange soda, or wine while sitting on them? Do they have a pet? Does that pet go outside and roll in a disgusting dead carcass and bring that slime and odor home while lounging on the “white” couch? White? No thank you.
So many of those places also have glass coffee tables and glass dining room and kitchen tables. Seriously? Are you insane? Sure, you can give the illusion of more room, but how many servants does it take to clean them? One showed a table she designed that took twelve people to bring the glass in. I guarantee three teenage boys could shove that thing off of its pedestal in short order, leaving behind enough DNA for conviction.
Himself had a glass table in the kitchen when I met him, but he was living alone. He thought the brass stand showing through was cool and bachelory. It was. Then we moved it with us when we married and combined five kids, four cats and a puppy. Not so sexy now, right big guy?
We’d sit down to dinner around that table and every single one of the kids would get a kick out of making schmootzy spaghetti sauce finger prints on the underside of the glass. They loved watching me spray and rub, wondering why I couldn’t get it clean from the top. I’d try and stretch under the glass to clean the bottom, but you couldn’t do that from a chair and I’d wind up on my back on the floor, reaching up to clean it. After every meal. And after every time someone walked past and smeared it with greasy chip fingers, or laid a popsicle down just long enough to irritate me. It didn’t take long. I was irritated a lot in those days. I bought a series of plastic table cloths in order to save the marriage and my own sanity.
Keep your glass tables! Keep your white couches!
One designer actually had moss growing on her doors. Moss! I spend hours trying to get rid of the growth in our shower and this bimbo is putting it on her doors. C’mon over, lady! I’ll see your moss and raise you unrelenting mildew! Who are these people?
They’re nuts, that’s who. Or what. They must all have endless cleaning people to maintain this insanity. Otherwise they’d design couches already stamped with greasy pizza slices and tipped over sodas.
I might have to quarantine myself from designer shows now, too, because, apparently, they are also causing stress. I’ll think about that while I sit on my too colorful, too fluffy furniture, that serves my too fluffy ass just fine!