When Mark and I moved into our home, I was obsessed with making it fabulous. I painted it myself in hip hues. I placed unread books on bookshelves and organized them by color simply for the aesthetic. I set up little vignettes on counters in groups of three to make my home seem chic, yet warm, you know, a cross between make yourself comfortable and maybe you shouldn't touch that?
Yes, one day our home would be the perfect blend of comfy/zen/chic and people would gush upon entering and then complement it with gusto and envy. (At the very least it would be clean and organized.)
HA ha ha ha ha ha haaaa.
I'm sorry, did I do that out loud? I was just remembering what I envisioned, you know before my kids and pets ... and husband ruined, stained, chipped, wrote on, or buried (under toys) everything I owned. Oh, and I had the time or energy to care.
We all had idealistic visions (do these sound familiar):