Well, as I indicated two days ago, I need Nate Berkus to come and rescue our poor excuse for a bedroom from the dismal decay of frump-induced bedding and lack of imagination. I read recently that one’s bedroom should be reserved for “sleep and sex,” so I guess that means the kids’ books and Matchbox cars on my nightstand should go. Setting the mood for those two gorgeous activities should, I dare to believe, involve creating a ‘love den’: dark and lovely. I’ve heard of others rejecting the notion of a ‘cave’ and opting instead for a ‘love palace.’ Nice. Makes me think my knight in shining armor will be on his way shortly bringing with him gemstones, poofy dresses and glass slippers that click down brick floors.
Whatever you wish to call your bedroom, we can all agree that it *should* be an oasis. In our home, however, the oasis has become something akin to the elephant graveyard from Lion King: Don’t ever go there, Simba! It is a dumping grounds in an impending-visitor emergency. Imagine the scene with me:
Shoot!! My mom just called and they’re on their way!! Get these baskets of clothes off the sofa! What’s all this other crap?! Quick! Toss it in our closet before they get here! [activate children scurrying with a look of terror and angst on their faces ala the Everybody Loves Raymond intro].
Our furniture, though just 8 years old, has lost its shine…and an entire layer of wood veneers from the top. You’d think we were laying in bed playing with knives and spatulas! [see photo] Just recently we let our son fall asleep in our bed and returned to find that he had drawn monster trucks on the bare wood with ink pen. That’s a hot look. Nothing says ‘rockin’ sex’ like rolling over to your son’s drawings ON THE FURNITURE. I can practically smell the exhaust and hear the radio announcer yell in a gravelly voice, ‘Monster truck rally–SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!!’ Just get your lid of chew and join the fun!
So far you’re realizing that my oasis includes strewn clothes, baskets of junk, and exhaust fumes. This is why I need Nate Berkus. I mean, who doesn’t need Nate Berkus?! But seriously, I need help.
This past week we had a new mattress delivered. It is pure heaven: a king size dream…with box springs still wrapped in plastic and sitting directly on our floor. We are such pieces of work. We’re trying to exercise control by foregoing the $100 frame-only option and putting that money toward the purchase of an actual headboard/footboard. It’s all picked out but I’ve come to grips with the fact that they’re not going to let me have it just because I’m a nice person with a pathetic bedroom. To top it all off, we are using this…”bedspread”…[you already know it’s trouble, don’t you!]…that we got from my husband’s mom. It’s white with some kind of circle-raised-tufted designs and hanging things around the bottom. I suppose you could call it a “fringe,” which only makes me cringe all the more.
To emphasize its hideousness, my husband, who could live his life rotating through the same 5 outfits, said to me, “It looks like it belongs in an Abraham Lincoln Museum.” Seriously. If an ex-football coach whose favorite decor involves a certain ‘swoosh’ can detect the awful reality, anyone can. I have since learned that this luscious textile does have a name: Martha Washington Bedding. For a Pottery Barn girl, this is sheer grandma-land that is better left to Bed & Breakfast owners in Maine. I’ve tried to ratchet it up a notch by using some of our old pillows for color, but even they are not creating the distraction I was hoping for.So, people, please send your suggestions! We’re brainstorming how to rectify this situation and acknowledge that we don’t have thousands to spend on a total overhaul. Now, if Candice Olsen or Nate Berkus want to help out of the kindness of their sympathetic hearts, the door to my bedroom stands open and waiting. It’s time for Martha to get home to George.