Dream House

In one of my many dreams of public acknowledgment, Domino Magazine (RIP January 2009) asks to do a photo layout of my house.

Ever since my first dorm room, my various shares, pads and apartments have been little more than a string of repositories for an unfulfilled creative exuberance and obsessive compulsion for composition. One could always find me limp from paint fumes, shuffling through take-out containers with a cordless drill at my hip. I had a maniacal look in my eye, like the seven dwarfs' evil cousin Shirley-- but no whistling, just raw, pent-up design hostility.

Many moons later, I live in a house which is so stuffed to the gills with accumulated nostalgia and rummage sale treasures that I should have visitors sign a waiver releasing me from indemnity should the offended guest have a seizure.

There's so much internal baggage that I've either shed or shelved in the last nine months that now all I can see when I look around is what everyone else has always seen-- a cozy little house over-laden with too much crap. It's all I can do not to jetison the stuff out the window like the brooding, lithe model in that moody lame jeans ad-- an Italian opera blaring in the background. And there it would be in a pile on the damp lawn; the popsicle stick lamp from my rummage sale wedding shower; all the art I bought off the sidewalk from homeless guys in the east village in the eighties who dumpster dived for unclaimed portfolios in front of Cooper Union and SVA during locker clean out week; the stack of vintage suitcases I used by default as a media stand and never upgraded and every other piece of shit that I see and think either:

1. Oh my gawd. Someone maaaade that! Look at that color combination/wild design/insane person's vision realized! Some sweet little old lady in a crafts class, way beyond her prime and silently seething for giving up her dreams of being a graphic designer so that she could raise seven kids, made that. Look at all the work that went into that! So many teeny googly eyes and so many fuzzy pipe cleaners. It's enchanting!

or

2. Oh my gawd, it's how much? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what this is worth in Nolita/Tribeca/Williamsburg/on Antiques Roadshow?

So I buy. I have a collection of strange wire trees with shells or pebbles for leaves and angel food cake cutters with Bakelite handles. I have a set of dinner plates comprised of souvenir US state plates from the 1950s. (But they're only two bucks each!) And at least five paperclip and contact paper necklaces from the seventies. I have paint-by-numbers, Chinese silk fans and calling card rulers from the last hundred years. And I. Can't. Stop. Because I can't stop appreciating the work or the artistry or the trouble that the person went through to create this incredible thing that has ended up at some rummage sale for six bucks. Or seventy five cents. So I buy.

Which I guess is a good thing, because I'll never get my home in a magazine and even if I did, it would go a little something like this:

I glide effortlessly towards the front door in a robin's egg blue cinch-belted day dress with rustling crinoline and black pumps. (collar smartly turned up) My hair was set the night before and I kept my curlers in an extra two hours after I awoke so as to keep my natural curl (wink) for as long as possible. The pillows are pouffed, the dishes are done and the magazine folks have arrived to a clear, cloudless day. The garden's in bloom, the photographer's ready and his reporter's pencil is poised on a little spiral ring palm-sized notepad. I clear my throat and begin.

"Let's start in the foyer (pronounced foy-yay), as you can see, we chose floor colors that would enhance the mud that would be tracked in daily in both states of wet and dried. The mud, I'm proud to say, was dislodged by foot and has been tracked in from as near as the back yard and as far as the local playground, with up to thirty-two exotic locations in between. In the winter, the salt from the snow on our boots dries to makes particularly darling Rorschach-esque lily pad designs all over the floor. On some days, when my son or I forget to take off our boots at the back door, the little salt designs look like the paths of pixies have graced our dull wooden floors to our sheer delight."

"Speaking of our wooden floors, we've chosen not to re-varnish the gaping cracks between its slats so as to showcase our impressive collection of organic cookie and cracker crumbs. We believe it pays homage to similar crumbs on Native American tee-pee floor coverings that may have been erected on this very plot of land before they were driven away or slaughtered. Right this way to the kitchen." I turn on a heel and clack my way through the dining room, glancing once at the photographer in a surreptitiously flirty way.

"Notice the dried oatmeal stuck on the kitchen table." (I run my long, lacquered fingernails over the table's charmingly bumpy surface.) "We think this gives the table a nice topography evoking the quotidian warmth of use and wear. We're glad you like it, as we can't seem to clean it off, no mater how many sponges we soak in piping hot water." I smile and wink at the photographer again. His name is Gus. He's looking at my floor under the kitchen table. "These pizza crust and grilled cheese crumbs have been left on the floor purposely to evoke a sort of olde towne corner pub peanut-shells-on-the-floor feeling. We like it. And until we get a dog someday, which will, quite frankly, never happen, the crumbs stay." I smile and twirl one perfect twirl to the other side of the kitchen.

Opening a cabinet I say, "I put the shelf paper down myself when we moved in, and, although we've only been in the house a mere eight years, I like the smooth patina of olive oil, worcestershire and soy sauce that has masked the original paper's design. The sticky swath of dark, murky guck at shelf's bottom helps to keep the peanut butter and vinegar from slipping off the shelf although I do wish it didn't seem to glue down the Morton's salt shaker in it's wake, but what's a girl to do? A couple tugs and presto!" I tug at my Morton's salt canister and it doesn't budge. Gus leans over me, reaching up with his strong, manly arm and with one yank, also can't get it to budge. I close the cabinet and chirp, "On to the living room!"

"The Sofa? Why is it so soft? I thought you'd never ask. Once a season, I harvest the dust bunnies from all over the house and wad them into little balls creating a cotton candy-like puff of spun silk and nestle them in the cracks of my sofa. It's so much more time effective that plugging in the vacuum cleaner. And it makes the couch bouncier, see?" I bounce a little, giving Gus one more come hither look to seal the deal.

I stand and gesture out the picture window, "The garden, we've left in a state of permanent need to weed because we think that it says to our neighbors, 'We're too busy living life to its fullest to pull out last fall's annuals and the tangled net of weeds you see before you! Come join us in our lust for life!' Or so I think it says." I look out the window. The garden is pathetic. "I guess that just about does it," I say, "the rest you can see for yourselves. I'll leave you alone to do what it is that you do do." And with that I toddle off.

They leave soon thereafter and I immediately take off my pumps and rub my calloused feet. I realize, too late, that I've been saying, "We" this whole time, as if speaking for my husband or my staff, both of which I have none. I guess that means I've blown my chances with Gus. No matter, he looked a little sweaty anyway. And besides, I have things to do! I'm a very busy woman, busy, busy, busy! There are still rooms to paint and pictures to hang, furniture to upholster and curtains to sew because, when I get right down to it, I do love my house. It's my sanctuary, my steady boyfriend, my one constant companion. It's my dearest true love and I wouldn't change it for the world! Not a spec, not an inch. La di da.