Dreaming of that Eames chair in the sky…
So, as my faithful readers (my best friends since childhood and my sister, way to support!) know, the husband and I like to consider ourselves stylish, savvy urban dwellers. We still rent, but have a rather large, newish apartment that we take great pride in. We leaf through design magazines monthly, follow all the Cool Hunting, Hunter and Hunted blogs on the daily, and watch so much HGTV it’s embarrassing to admit we don’t have either a home or a garden. We like a minimalist aesthetic, sprinkled with pops of contemporary color, one-of-a-kind accessories, and of course, photos of Little D (preferably black and whites, taken by an artist friend) strategically positioned about.
We consider our home our oasis. We work here. We relax here. We have fun here.
And then Little D goes ahead and pisses all over it.
She is what I like to call “90% potty trained”, which means that on occasion – ok, probably more often than 10% of the time – she will look up, sweet and innocent and proclaim “I have to go potty” while she simultaneously pees all over the place. The look of disappointment on her little face as I rush her to the bathroom, dripping all the way, is heart-breaking, yes. But so is the stain on my perfectly neutral beige with brown color-block accents rug. Which is why, despite our love, our craving, our passion for great design, our little hacienda is more of a Monet than a Picasso (remember that vocab lesson from Clueless? Monet = good from far, but far from good).
That modern, yet cozy pistachio green couch? Cheap microfiber. The perfectly poised brown and printed throw pillows sitting atop? Hiding stains from spilled milk, finger paints, and lord knows what else. That sharp espresso wood end-table holding up my weekly fresh flower binge from the Farmer’s Market? Ikea. Lack. $15. Been replaced like 10 times.
So while we may have champagne taste in the home decor department, the husband and I are purposely limiting ourselves to a beer budget (imported beer, but beer nonetheless). And until Little D and hopefully, some day, Little D’s Littler D, come and go without a spill, a spot or a stain in sight, we’ll keep our Monet and keep saving for the Picasso.