If I Lived Here
Today is Leap Blog Day, and you know what that means: blog hop! MOV is guest posting, and in the spirit of my regular House Stalker feature, MOV writes about her house stalking addiction. Enjoy the read!
I recently read a great book by Meghan Daum called, “Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House.” She is a wonderful author and I adored her book, but this essay is not about her book; it’s about her title.
Don’t we all feel that way, a little bit? Life would be perfect if I lived in that house. I would be thin. I would have lots of friends. I would never eat cereal for dinner or wear the same sweatpants two days in a row and forget that it’s my turn for carpool.
I would be smart. Sassy. Original. On-time. Never raise my voice. Zen-like. Yes, if I only lived in that house.
Like Kirby, I routinely stalk various houses around my neighborhood of Crazy Town (and by routinely, I mean at 6 AM on a Sunday when there is less chance of me being arrested for trespassing). No house is immune. Even houses that my five-year-old might deem too “yucky” hold potential in my architecturally-inspired mind. I like Craftsman. I like Cape Cod. I like Colonial. I like ultra-modern. I like big houses and small, houses that have not been touched, and houses that have been totally redone. Today I’ve set my sights on this gem:
Obviously, if I lived here, I would be rich. Rich enough to have a gardener because that is a lot of lawn to mow. I would be the type of rich person who brings in her own groceries but does not want to get her gorgeous blonde Pantene-commercial hair rained on (see the breezeway from the garage to what I assume is the fully-renovated, Sub-Zeroed, Viking-ranged, granite counter-topped kitchen?). I would absolutely have a maid and a personal chef, but I would be such a nice boss that I would want to help carry in those organic groceries (unless I was getting back from the gym. In that case I might be tired and in need of a nap or a glass of Pinot.).
The garage would hold my three cars: Rolls Royce, Ferrari, and some sort of SUV. They came with the house. I wouldn’t know how to drive the Rolls, but that’s okay: the chauffeur would.
If I lived in the Mansion de MOV (the official new name), I would be patriotic (see the flag there by the door?). In my real life, I am patriotic, only I can’t find my flag. I know it’s around here somewhere. Forgive me for misplacing it, I have a good reason—we just moved. Two years ago. So that means we are still putting everything away.
If this was my house, I would be the type of person who makes decisions easily. My world would be black and white. White bricks, black shutters and door. Done. There would be none of this vacillating around stuff.
This house would have a red dining room. The Husband would not like that, but it’s what the house dictates, and who are we to argue with a house? It’s bigger than us. It wins.
The master bedroom would have a sweeping view of the pool (duh), and be decorated in a soothing palette of cream on polar white on beige on ecru, with cheery pops of color in the (original) art work, which were painted by all my new famous artist friends. There would be a sparkly crystal chandelier, natch, in the seating area—sort of a hidden reading nook-alcove-thing. The adjoining master bath would have 1930’s jade green and jet black vintage tile plus a formal dressing area. One whole walk-in closet would cosset my over-priced designer shoes. (The Husband could kick off his muddy running shoes near the back door somewhere.)
One room in The Mansion de MOV would be devoted to my endless collection of horseback riding trophies. (In real life I own neither a horse nor a trophy, such is the transformative power of the right house.) Another room would be dedicated to The Husband’s stamp collection and sports memorabilia from the time he played professional baseball (he didn’t, but we don’t have to tell the house that just yet).
House would want us to have parties. The house comes with a complete list of new, wealthy friends who love to socialize and are always saying things like, “We just got back from Rio,” or “We’ve decided to open up a third restaurant in Paris,” or “Do you like it? It’s Chanel.” These new friends would not bring a bottle of wine for a hostess gift—they would bring the deed to an extra winery they happen to have in Napa.
This partying would take place in the living room and spill out onto the patio. There seems to be some sort of alluring covered veranda-type thing on the left side of the house as you are facing it. I tried to get a closer look, but that’s when the security guards confiscated my binoculars and threatened to have me carted away to the nearest police station.
See? I like that. If I lived in that house, I would have my own security force to keep out the riffraff. Clearly, we’d need it, what with all the wackos wandering around the neighborhood.