The Santa Fe Room
In one month, Laurie and I will join the ranks of first-time homeowners. Throughout our Odyssean wanderings on far-flung shores, the dream of watching the rosy fingers of dawn from the vantagepoint of our own front porch has sustained us, and at long last, the dream is becoming reality.
As the big day approaches, Laurie susses out the possibilities of our permanent lodging by prowling around in the House and Home forums; she's decorated and re-decorated every room several times over in her mind.
As for me, the outdoorsy one, I envision myself plucking a tomato from the vine. I stride across the porch to my wife who is sitting on a patio chair, looking angelic in a white summer dress. A cool breeze blows through her golden locks. She bites into the sunwarmed fruit, and tomato juice dribbles down her chin. Her eyes widen, testifying that yes, this is indeed the most delicious tomato she has ever eaten. After I pause for a moment to pet our dog and reflect on the goodness of life, I strap on a toolbelt and head back to the yard to build the gazebo, or engage in some other manly, manly task in the garage while she stirs the lemonade which will later quench my thirst.
A while back, Laurie and I scoped out some antiques at a bed and breakfast not far out of town. Most of the rooms were tastefully decorated with period antiques and homemade quilts, but there was one room which has become a running joke: The Santa Fe Room. The Santa Fe Room was designed by the man of the house, and every stereotype of the male asthetic found its confirmation is this unparalled affront to good taste. The room was a mishmash of Southwestern-themed artifacts amid a backdrop of garish saffron yellow and torquoise. A horse collar with a mirror in the middle hung above the dresser, and inexpicably, African and Indonesian masks covered the wall above the bed. If the designer had ever actually been to Santa Fe, I can only assume he spent his time immersed in some sort of Peyote cult.
For the last few months, I've been threatening Laurie with the spectre of having our own Santa Fe room. Laurie has excellent taste, and although I'm pretty good stylewise as far as guys go, it's fair to say that everything beautiful in my life has eminated from her since we met. I almost always defer to her superior judgement. All the same, like Virginia Woolf, I long for a room of one's own; a fortress of solitude; a batcave, if you will; a Santa Fe Room minus the Peyote trip. In principle, she has no objection, but we're still negotiating a few of the details. Here are a few things I want in my room:
1. Several identical clocks with placards underneath that read: "Paris", "Tokyo", "New York", and "Buenos Aires".
2. A small table in the corner with bright copper kettles, warm woolen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up with string. When people ask me what it is, you damn well know what I'm gonna say.
3. A black velvet portrait of dogs playing poker...that never fails to crack me up.
4. A Papa San chair...Laurie hates those.
...So what's in your Santa Fe Room? What items have you prohibited your spouse from having in your shared living quarters? Do tell...
As the big day approaches, Laurie susses out the possibilities of our permanent lodging by prowling around in the House and Home forums; she's decorated and re-decorated every room several times over in her mind.
As for me, the outdoorsy one, I envision myself plucking a tomato from the vine. I stride across the porch to my wife who is sitting on a patio chair, looking angelic in a white summer dress. A cool breeze blows through her golden locks. She bites into the sunwarmed fruit, and tomato juice dribbles down her chin. Her eyes widen, testifying that yes, this is indeed the most delicious tomato she has ever eaten. After I pause for a moment to pet our dog and reflect on the goodness of life, I strap on a toolbelt and head back to the yard to build the gazebo, or engage in some other manly, manly task in the garage while she stirs the lemonade which will later quench my thirst.
A while back, Laurie and I scoped out some antiques at a bed and breakfast not far out of town. Most of the rooms were tastefully decorated with period antiques and homemade quilts, but there was one room which has become a running joke: The Santa Fe Room. The Santa Fe Room was designed by the man of the house, and every stereotype of the male asthetic found its confirmation is this unparalled affront to good taste. The room was a mishmash of Southwestern-themed artifacts amid a backdrop of garish saffron yellow and torquoise. A horse collar with a mirror in the middle hung above the dresser, and inexpicably, African and Indonesian masks covered the wall above the bed. If the designer had ever actually been to Santa Fe, I can only assume he spent his time immersed in some sort of Peyote cult.
For the last few months, I've been threatening Laurie with the spectre of having our own Santa Fe room. Laurie has excellent taste, and although I'm pretty good stylewise as far as guys go, it's fair to say that everything beautiful in my life has eminated from her since we met. I almost always defer to her superior judgement. All the same, like Virginia Woolf, I long for a room of one's own; a fortress of solitude; a batcave, if you will; a Santa Fe Room minus the Peyote trip. In principle, she has no objection, but we're still negotiating a few of the details. Here are a few things I want in my room:
1. Several identical clocks with placards underneath that read: "Paris", "Tokyo", "New York", and "Buenos Aires".
2. A small table in the corner with bright copper kettles, warm woolen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up with string. When people ask me what it is, you damn well know what I'm gonna say.
3. A black velvet portrait of dogs playing poker...that never fails to crack me up.
4. A Papa San chair...Laurie hates those.
...So what's in your Santa Fe Room? What items have you prohibited your spouse from having in your shared living quarters? Do tell...
