Richard: So clearly, I was wrong: our little friend a couple of posts back did not fall prey to the aesthetic whims of a crack commando unit of lesbian decoratoresses. That adorable young man with the cluttered family room is actually a disco-dancin’, Oscar Wilde-readin’, Streisand-ticket-holdin’ friend of Dorothy, and this is obviously his daddy. (I mean that in the most erotically charged sense of the word.) How else to explain that wall color? Surely only one batch of it was made before the secret recipe was tossed in a turkey fryer and destroyed.

However, unlike boy’s special area, daddy’s rumpus room is nearly 50-50. On the plus side: the dog plaque. If you’re a dog lover, you can’t go too wrong in my book. Also: the gray recliner. Yes, recliner. I know. But that gray is Christian Siriano-ferrocshe. Isaac Mizrahi would call it sophisticated; I call it nostalgic. Add a Nagel print, and you’re in my first apartment of the middle-late 80s. Last on the good list: the black wastebasket (what can I say, I’m a sucker for kitsch) and that giant bottle of Lubriderm or its generic equivalent, which surely came in handy while daddy was watching the Teen Choice Awards.

On the downside: tabbed drapes with curtain-rod sheers (match ‘em, people!), more of that nasty faux-brass carried over from junior’s room, and see-through plastic storage containers, which are never, ever, ever acceptable in semi-public spaces. For one, daddy’s bins contain children’s games, which implies something creepy and unsuitable for family websites like this one. And for two, how can anyone cultivate an air of father-like authority with his collection of mini croquet mallets (or shower curtain rings) laying in plain view?

My: I would hereby like to attest that I am, in fact, a fairly wide-hipped lesbian from Ireland. And boys, seriously, we do NOT paint walls Pussy Pink. I mean, would you paint a wall… I dunno, Penis Purple? Foreskin Fuschia? Testicle Tope?

This room screams closet case with an over-compensating wife. It’s like a colour-coded way of saying “Can’t Host”. Only a straight woman, desperately overdoing the whole “femininity” shtick to convince herself that her marriage ticks all the correct gender-role boxes, could have such an utter taste breakdown. She probably thinned the paint with tears. Alice, Monica, Janet, whoever you are – you have our sympathy but really honey, it’s time to wake up and smell the astroglide (no matter how hard you try to mask it with a Glade plugin).

File Under:Living Room Wreckage

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File Under:Violations of Space

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