I recently regaled you with embarrassing photos illustrating my penchant for quaint, old-lady like interiors. So I thought I’d share this awesome example of how futzy, feminine, and traditional can be turned on it’s head to pack a youthful, modern, and ultra-sophisticated punch. For reals, this house is JAZZ HANDS. It’s a ballsy explosion of floral patterns, subtle colors juxtaposed with bright hues, and a complete disregard of design rulez (disclaimer: no balls exploded in the making of this home). Seriously, this interior design should not work. Painted ceilings, painted walls, layered, unmatched patterns. It’s bonkers. I adore it.
For more photos, check out the full home tour (offered in three parts!) on Apartment Therapy.
Someone unleashed a hyperactive Queer Eye for the Straight Guy cast member on this bitch with buckets of sage paint. Bold, brash, and more unapologetically vaginal than a Georgia O’Keefe painting, I find myself wanting to type OMFG when I look at it, like I’m a member of the CW’s target demographic.
Which, by the way, I sort of am. I loved the crap out of Veronica Mars and Gilmore Girls, (stop judging me) and if you can’t appreciate a crazypants insaneface Tyra Banks on ANTM, our common ground ends here. I’ve considered watching Gossip Girl, but can someone explain the Chuck Bass character to me? I can’t take this guy seriously. The actor who plays him appears to have attended the same “something smells like shit in here” school of acting as Keira Knightly.
In other design fodder news, I’ve been enjoying the blog Yellow Brick Home. Perhaps more palatable than the above home, this couple makes fun and creative choices decorating their impossibly small 650-square foot Chicago apartment. And they are mad thrifty. Plus, their home tour provides a link to a source list detailing where they’ve scored their great finds. I’m particularly liking their Craigslist chair. Would be a nice replacement for my sad wicker accent chair, still covered in fur from my dead cat. Yes, in addition to saving our bitchass dearly departed cat Milton’s ashes in a tin on the counter of our guest bath sink (you know, as a conversation piece for visitors), the cushion on my wicker chair carries enough Milton DNA to clone him three times over (presumably, the third one would be slower than the rest, and have a penchant for pizza and ladies who “touch his pepe”). I’m sentimental and all, but it has been more than two years since the butthole died and left us to walk the house without being acutely aware of the vulnerability of our Achilles’ heels to cat scratch fever, or use the toilet without the specter of a hunched, feline form lying in wait until we turned on the faucet so he could furtively dart his tongue under the running water and OH NO, I WILL SCRATCH OUT A BITCH’S EYES IF YOU TURN OFF THE WATER. TRY ME, MOTHAFUCKA.
Oh Milton. Our lives are safer, but far less terrifying interesting without you.
So yeah, I gotta find me one of them mid-century modern lounge chairs. On the cheap. Sans cat fur. On the other hand, animal hair rugs are popular, so perhaps our Milton blanket carries the cachet of a flokati throw. Snap, I just started a trend. OMFG, y’all.