Okay, I want a house.
I want an older house in Oregon or Vancouver with a view of the beach, but not that stupid Florida-esque beach with the pretty sand and the pretty waves and the pretty people in their pretty bikinis. I want a beach that's too cold for bikinis most of the year, and I want the landscape to be all rocks and brush and clouds.
I don't want to sunbathe on my beach.
I want to look at it in the morning all wrapped up in blankets and hold a cup of frothy hot chocolate to my gross, chapped, decidedly unkissable lips. I want to walk my dogs through the cold and the mist and come in with matted hair. I want to chase someone around on the rough sand and feel it creeping in through my clothing while saltwater stings my eyes. And if I ever come inside, I don't want to be in a house like you might find here. I don't want eggshell paint or beige wall-to-wall carpeting or vertical blinds or big white tiles. I don't want my house in fucking neutral. I want those thick, pretty glass windows that you find in old houses, you know, the kind you can hardly even see out of- except in the rooms that overlook the ocean. Then I want big picture windows that frame the water like it's a not-so-still life. I want weathered wood flooring, the rustic kind, except for pretty stone tile in the kitchen and bathroom, maybe. I want my bedroom to be a tribute to minimalism. I don't want decadence, I want light and space and air and Zen. I want a big bed to be the focal point of the room, maybe with a really simple, drapy canopy because I always wanted a canopy bed when I was a kid. (Yeah, like every other girl.) I want huge unframed prints of black and white photographs- my own and others'- scattered strategically on the otherwise bare walls. I want candles EVERYWHERE, candles that smell like the ocean. And at night I want to open the windows and smell the real ocean because if I, god forbid, had to sleep alone, something that big is always good company.
I want my bathroom to be little and cozy but so functional it's almost ridiculous. I want even men to refer to it unwittingly as a 'powder room', like what you'd find at a bed and breakfast. I want pretty, gender-neutral wallpaper that offsets a vintage bathtub, a freestanding sink, and a big white antiqued wood cabinet that holds fluffy towels and extra soap and bottles of designer fragrances. The bath mat? White chenille. The towels? Simple, fluffy, yellow and white, European because everything sounds better when you say it's European. I want a white antique vanity with a little white cushy seat and I want it scattered with lipstick and powder and brushes and books of modern poetry, because every cool person should have poetry books in their bathroom.
I want the living room to be laid-back yet classy, with butter colored walls and a deep red sofa (trust me, it would look great) and a vintage coffee table that's stacked with photo books. I want huge bookshelves stacked with books, too, so many books that they're falling off the shelves. Novels, classics, poetry, short stories, textbooks, photo essays, antiques, Bibles. Whatever, I don't care, I want them all. And I want filmy, frothy white curtains that puddle at the floor, I want funky tables salvaged from antique stores, and I want colorful modern art adorning one wall. Or photography. Lots and lots of photography.
Sometimes returning to Ponce 387, with its freezing stale air that reeks constantly of Easy Mac, seems less and less appealing. (THROWBACK TO FLAGLER WOOHOO!)