I had Morgan over to the house a while back. She’s helping me with the living room, and despite my proclivity for hermit behavior and perfectionism, she finagled her way into my house, took a look around and said, “It’s not that you don’t have style. You just don’t have balls.”
She’s right. I have always worried about what people think, especially when it comes to decorating, though in the last year I have been better about giving a flying rip. I put up the vintage bullhorns even though I knew my brother in-law would find them utterly confusing. (He did.) My kitchen is almost black, and I have an ever growing collection of rocks and plants, even though I am not a high school science teacher. My books are still stacked on the green secretary for all the world to see, and I only blushed a little when one family friend asked if I didn’t have a, um, bookshelf. A bookshelf for the books.
Well, if she thought the artfully stacked books were bad, the wig is going to fly off her head when she sees the blue vintage chesterfield from Craigslist. I think I found my balls.