There is no way to sugarcoat this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. I suck at decorating.
Phew. There. I said it.
My home is comfortable enough — not that big, not that small — but it does not look like anything even remotely close to something on HGTV, unless maybe it was on one of those “before and after” rehab-type shows like Fixer Upper.
Allow me to paint a picture for you. The photos on our family room wall are perpetually crooked. There is a picture of Cubs player Kris Bryant that my son ripped out of a magazine taped over a framed family portrait. The centerpiece on our dining room table is still filled with seashells from my half-assed attempt at seasonal décor, even though it’s now the middle of October and we’re in the heart of motherfucking decorative gourd season.
And the first comment most people make when they walk into our family room is, “Why is there a jackass on your wall?” because, yes, there is a picture of a jackass taped to the wall (the donkey kind, not the human kind) along with a portrait collage.
See, I told you I suck at decorating. And you know what? IDGAF.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. I care a little bit. I mean, I wish I could channel my inner Joanna Gaines, but I also wish I had an ass like Jessica Biel and abs like Jillian Michaels. That shit just ain’t gonna happen. Why? Because I have kids and pets. This is why we can’t have nice things is basically my motto.
Also, I’m kind of lazy. I just don’t have the energy to spend hours looking for coordinated throw pillows, nor do I have any interest in researching whether shiplap would work on our house. I don’t even know what fucking shiplap is, but apparently it’s all the rage.
But even if I did have the time, energy, and interest in decorating my home à la Pottery Barn, I have zero interest in nagging my kids to keep their feet off a white couch or yelling at them get their Legos out of the bowl of fake gourds. It’s hard enough reminding them a freaking gazillion times a day to brush their teeth and to put their dirty clothes in the laundry shoot that is literally right outside their bedroom door.
I just don’t have it in me to care about whether the hand towels in my guest bathroom stay clean. I don’t even have a guest bathroom, for fuck’s sake! I share a bathroom with three males. I’d be happy to have to have a bathroom where the toilet seat stays down and the toilet paper roll gets changed.
Also, I don’t even like HGTV. Blasphemy, I know, but it’s a nagging reminder of all the ways I suck at decorating — and adulting, for that matter. I’ll turn on the channel, feeling relatively okay about my modest home and relatively content with my simple life. But within five minutes, I hate everything about our house and I doubt every single one of my life choices and I want to go to Home Depot immediately and start DIYing fire pits, bar carts, and shabby chic nightstands.
Look, I’m not knocking HGTV or anyone who gets excited about this shit. If wandering the aisles of Lowe’s on a Saturday night or binge-watching Property Brothers floats your boat, more power to you. But as envious as I might get over your spacious foyer, brightly colored accent wall, or your trendy chaise lounge, I just can’t do it. I’m a minimalist at heart and get easily overwhelmed with all the options. Not to mention the fact that anytime I spruce up one thing, it just makes the rest of the house look even shabbier (not the chic kind). Where does it all end?! In caulk up to my eyeballs complaining about outdated shiplap, that’s where.
So there you have it. I suck at decorating. And the older I get, the less I care. My house looks nothing like a West Elm catalog and more like a toy store — and not a trendy Pottery Barn toy store, but the cheap plastic shit from Toys”R”Us. My bedroom set predates my 12-year marriage. I can’t for the life of me tell the difference between paint colors like ecru and alabaster.
And I still have no idea what shiplap is.