Happy Is As Happy Does
So let's move on. I need to think about happy things. You know what makes me happy? Color. I adore color. Taupe is my nemesis.
I have a friend who has done her entire home in neutral tones. It makes me want to stick a fork in my eye. It's so blaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.
Recently she bought a new comforter for her bedroom. It's cabbage roses on a dark beige background, which sounds really kitschy, but it's actually very nice. It's some type of fabric with a slight sheen to it. I like the lustre.
She asked me to help her shop for paint, which is silly, because she knew I would choose deep vibrant colors. And she knew that she would still end up painting it some boring earth tone. Sure enough, she chose chip after chip in tones of beige, taupe and mud, while I was attracted to the pink, the green, and the rose hues.
I implored her to use some color. Her bedroom has a vaulted ceiling and can handle it. She agreed that her home could use some color and said she would consider it.
She painted it taupe.
I have a dream home completely constructed, furnished and decorated in my mind. In my dream home is my dream room. It is a medium sized room with large, long windows on two sides that let in the afternoon sun. On one wall is a large fireplace. It is not brick or marble, rather but dark, rich wood that is carved with wonderful whorling shapes. It is oiled with something that smells of lemon, and gleams richly.
Above the fireplace hangs this picture:
She is Flaming June and everything about her makes me happy. I've written about her previously, and my fondness for her only grows deeper with time.
The walls are painted a vibrant orange. But not the orange of organges. It is the orange of flames. The orange of sunsets. The orange of of autumn leaves. It is the color of warmth and contentment.
The walls are lines with bookshelves upon which are all my beloved books. My birth books, poetry books, writing books, wine books, art books, gardening books, decorating books. And of course there are scads and scads of delicious fiction, most of which I cannot bear to part with.
In one corner there is a big, overstuffed chair with an ottoman. Beside the chair is a sturdy but attactive table upon which to pile the periodicals I devour like candy; Writer's Digest, Time, Newsweek. And yes, there is some not so highbrow reading material as well; InStyle, Cosmo, Good Housekeeping.
Behind the chair is a leaded glass Tiffany floorlamp (because in my dreams I can afford one) that lights the pages I read.
The floor is hardwood, but upon it is a thick and beautiful rug in shades of forest and umber. It makes me think of faraway places, where men are dark and women are sultry. There are plants in terracotta pots (because in my dreams, I can actually keep them alive) and framed photographs on the walls.
Best of all, there are no smelly sneakers, sports equipment or legos littering the floor. There are no cartoons blaring. It is a no bickering, farting, burping or armpit pumping zone. It's a no I'm telling, you started it did not did too zone.
Now that makes me happy.