Tuesday, August 31, 2010


Last night, I went to a coworker's home to see some photos from her recent trip to Asia (Hong Kong, China, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, in case you were interested). She made some appetizers consisting mostly of cheese (delish!) and uncorked a few bottles of wine. The photos were fantastic. I really enjoyed seeing and hearing her stories about rices paddies and buffalo shit.

But what I loved most of all was her condo. Her sense of interior design and style wowed me. Everything from the paint colors and placement to the wall hangings to the knick-knacks to the pillows and throws just complemented each other. It was bright, cheery, modern, bohemian, gorgeous. The style of the home was eclectic (e.g. NOT Pottery Barn, etc.), but it looked fantastic. So pulled together and lived in and I loved it.

For whatever reason, my sense of home design and style is terrible. (To be honest, my sense of personal style is kind of lacking, too. Clothes I can do, but accessories? Forget it.) It's not a family gene becauase Golden Brother has a fabulous sense of style (especially for a straight man) and his little studio apartment looks a thousand times better in shades of orange and green and modern art and contemporary furniture. Granted, Golden Brother studied art and architecture at university, so maybe it's a learned gene.

Whatever I lack, I lack in a big way. My house has prints hung up throughout, but they all look a little mismatched and oddly out of place. My furniture is a hodge-podge of stuff (and stained with child crap like food and paint and crayons).

I wish I had an innate sense of style. But for my house to look like anything other than thrown together and mishmashed, then I'll have to hire someone to come and pick out colors, furniture and wall hangings.

At least I can cook.

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