Dream House

Jeff and I had a pretty blissful first few months of being newlyweds, thanks in no small part to the fact that we lived together beforehand. Had we come home from our honeymoon and combined lives and belongings at that point, it wouldn’t have been nearly as romantic. I know this because I vividly recall the first few months of living with my perma-roomie… and they were anything but blissful.

He’s always here, I remember thinking, as I longed for some privacy to whip out the Jolen bleach and take care of some, um, personal grooming that my then boyfriend should not be privy to. Getting ready for dates was annoying rather than exciting as we fought for space on the too small vanity and I was forced to shave my legs in the shower as he used the toilet placed within earshot. The bed became unmade the moment he reclined in it; his feet needing to “breathe” like they had lungs of their own and his socks collected at the foot of the bed simply to piss me off. We had a lot of kinks to work out those first few months. A LOT.

And then there’s the fact that he’s always dared to have an opinion over decor, something that should fall under my domain. It’s like the time when he insisted on visiting the wedding florist because he really cared about the flowers, only to fall asleep — and snore — during her presentation. Does he really care? Can’t things like flowers and bedding and home scents and window treatments just be mine? Hands off, honey. Go build a man-cave in the basement or something.

15 years later, other than the occasional battle over replacing the toilet paper or griping that he still hasn’t taken out the recycling, I’ve accepted co-habitating with the love of my life (and our darling offspring.) Most days, I even like it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a dream house where I envision living without a husband and kids to mess things up.

Want a tour?

We’ll start in the bedroom, with pretty pink bedding, void of things like stray body hairs and breakfast bar crumbs.

On to the bathroom, with a single sink, with no hair trimmings, toothpaste marks or clutter of any kind…

and a clawfoot tub with a chandelier that serves no purpose other than looking pretty.

I’d have a dressing room, because, of course,

and a quiet place to put on my makeup and jewelry.

The kitchen would be built around my pink Cuisinart mixer, and always smell like vanilla scented candles.

And last, but not least, the gift wrapping/craft room of my dreams. Take that, Candy Spelling.

Alas, if all goes as planned, and we live happily ever after, this dream house will live in my head forever.

And I guess that’s not such a bad thing.

(P.S. Jeff, honey: While you were away, I decided we’re switching sides of the bed. Hope that’s ok!)