At the end of the day, I realized I spent DUDE, 4/20 cleaning and writing. This is my reaction, I suppose, to my state legalizing pot. Take that, grout.
For sale signs are sprouting in my neighborhood like mushrooms right now. It’s like someone turned a switch on and said OK REAL ESTATE TIMES GO. Obviously there is a season, but it looks like everyone is seriously on the same page. You know what this means, right? OPEN HOUSES. I’ve been hoping to get a little inspiration, but houses just a block or two away are five or ten years older and–design shift. No more Mamie pink, instead in 1960 we get…FLESH. UGH.
I did like the mirror though. Can I get this a la carte to go? No? Nuts.
“Flesh and pear!” sang the real estate agent. The kitchen was pear. It was too soon for avocado.
Dig that groovy window. They repeated through the house, sometimes yellow. Amber would be too generous. And the whole floor plan went clunk, poor thing.
Original wallpaper. If these gentlemen could speak, they would tell of shag carpeting, fondue, and tantric sex attempts resulting in backs being thrown out. Another room had a wallpapered ceiling, which, awesome.
This was useful:
I know, I know, useful and APPALLING. What is happening is that this is the main hall down the whole house. On the right is bedrooms, and on the left is a Florida room. There are windows in the hall to admit light. I’m planning on doing something similar to my basement–putting a hall down the center and a bathroom on one side and turning the basement rumpus room into a master bedroom and letting the light come in through nicer windows that will probably just look horrifying when the next owners take this house.
THRILLING, YES? I am having a quiet Sunday now, sitting near the fire and whipping my first reader through the second draft of (working title) “Angora Planet.” Then I can send it off to an editor friend. Then I can watch the rejection notices just ROLL IN. Then I will have to self-publish it. If you want to know how the Sunday comes out, you will have to take a nap and then eat too much cheese dip, spoiling your dinner. End of book report!
BORING.
That house was owned by an older gay bachelor, wasn’t it? Everything about it screams “Judy’s dead, and so is my design sense! Get me a whole pitcher of Blood Mary, and some wallpaper!”
hooray for second draft being done! woooo!
It’s not an aesthetic I grew up with, but the older I get the more I love the horrible colors of the 70s. Burnt orange! avocado! Dark wood! I used to hate them, now I find them endearing, quaint even. Possibly I’m going senile, I do not know.
Your post reminds me of the subway ads for a dermatologist in NYC named Dr Zizmor. The graphics include 1950s clip art, horrible before & after pics, a rainbow and unicorn, and the phrase “Thanks Dr Z!” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUNAwGIIv48
Now I can picture your sparkly Mamie Eisenhower inspired bathroom featured in a bus stop bench ad for a meth-fueled cleaning service.
“Thanks, Dr M!”
I love that house.
Love, love, love. OH THE NOSTALGIA FOR WEST COAST 1960s EXCESS YOU HAVE AWOKEN IN ME.
Did they still have the original carpet? I’m getting sad just thinking about it.
Writing and cleaning grout? All in one day? You are a superior being.
The grout looks good. “Meth and Soft Scrub” *!* I have a love affair with Soft Scrub that surpasses my childhood love of Comet and my parents’ love of “elbow grease”.
I am still ON NOTICE for some SJ fiction.
It’s coming, I hope. It’s with my editor friend now. It got really long and it needs help! I am working on something new now even. Can’t stop, won’t stop.