If you’ve ever found yourself struggling to fit a giant vat of olives into your fridge or an 84-roll mega pack of toilet paper under your bathroom sink while wondering why on earth they had seemed like such a bargain at the membership-only warehouse store:
You might understand our house.
Oh sure, there was no photo ID required or free samples like at the membership-only warehouse. But, as we strolled around looking at the house and property the first time, we could see that it had good bones and underneath all the neglect and grime, it had potential. In short: it was a deal.
My husband, Practical Man, loves a deal. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s why he married me.
Or, maybe it was for my membership-only warehouse card.
Anyway, the property was great but the house was a mess and it was much bigger than we needed. 3+2 bedrooms. In Canadian real estate vernacular that means 3 bedrooms on the main or upper floor of the house and two in the basement (often desirable in case you have teenagers or trolls you would rather keep partly underground.)
Just a reminder: there are two of us.
No growing, space-hogging children.
No gigantic, space-hogging pets.
Just space-hogging vintage vehicles (my idea) and assorted practical things (definitely not my idea) that need yard space. But, we really just wanted a small-ish house. Yet somehow, we ended up with five bedrooms (albeit two for trolls).
I know, I know.
But, try to remember: it’s like the 84-roll mega pack of toilet paper. It was a deal.
So, the upshot of all this is to confess that I commandeered a room (or two), one of which we call, “the dressing room”, because naturally, every room needs a name since we have so many darn rooms to keep track of. I think “dressing room” sounds very shi-shi or possibly Mariah Carey-ish or Jennifer Hudson-ish but my room is less personal shopping mall and more grown-woman-reverting-to-some-girly-persona-she-had-never-actually-had-as-a-child.
This room is entirely comprised of objects found, purchased at auction or in a thrift store except for a few items given to me as gifts by thoughtful people who played right into my designer-ific master vision. The 10×11 feet of space seemed to give me just enough room for all my girly infatuations to come bubbling up from I don’t know where.
Actually, I know from where.
I blame it on the 1980’s movie, Top Gun.
Kelly McGillis’s character had a gorgeous Porsche Speedster (drool!) and lived in a cute ocean-view cottage that was decorated in a sort of beach-cottage/shabby-chic look that I remember noticing. And, since the sweet little cottage from Top Gun inspired the room, I’ve decided that it shouldn’t be called the “dressing room” anymore. (even though that does appeal as it makes me sound a bit like an upstairs character in Downton Abbey.)
Instead, we’ll call it the Top Gun Room.
As you can see, it’s mostly pink. I’m sure that’s the first thing you thought of when you conjured up your image of a place called the Top Gun Room, right?
And yes, I’m aware that it’s completely self-indulgent.
Also, I’m not even sure I like pink, yet, I have a pink room and I also wrote a very, very pink book. I feel like it’s becoming a theme, but it’s not my fault.
I had planned just a few touches, but you see, the giant can of pink paint costs barely more than the teensy can of pink paint. So, Practical Man was quite right to suggest that it made no sense to buy the amount I actually needed when it actually cost so much more per brush stroke. Except, I really only needed about 400 brush strokes and now I have around 50,000 brush strokes of “bridal rose” still available. That’s a lot of pink paint to go around. As a result, it sometimes tries to splash into other places outside the dressing room.
Y’know, just the odd chair, bookshelf, or picture frame.
When this happens, Practical man mutters pointedly, “the pink is travelling” which I think is code for, “Good grief, isn’t that paint can empty yet?”
If you’ve ever bought the giant vat of olives, I know you understand.