This post may contain affiliate links. Please see my Disclosure statement for more details.
My mom was obsessed with Trading Spaces.
Surely you remember the uber-famous, turn-of-the-century, decorating show on TLC? Two families would trade their homes for a week-end, each family given $1,000 and a decorator to help them re-do one room. Sprightly Paige Davis would pounce back and forth between houses, her bright smile encouraging homeowners as they glued feathers to the wall or hung a chair upside-down from the ceiling.
I imagine the homeowners prayed long in advance that they would not be given Hildi as a designer. This was one of her infamous room makeovers, where she stapled silk flowers on the bathroom wall.
Inspired, our house underwent several transformations during those early 2000s years. Our more-formal living room was the most Spaces-esque: eggplant-colored walls, a giant gilted mirror above the piano, a new couch with a dark green and purple floral pattern.
Our family room became beach-themed eventually, thanks to the large number of cruises my parents have taken.
My bedroom – at some point – was painted a golden yellow, including the ceiling, with Asian themed bedding and a Chinese lantern hanging in the corner.
It’s probably because of this history of redecoration that I cannot seem to understand my husband’s aversion to painting. It’s a simple thing, isn’t it? You move in somewhere, you paint it a color you like. When we moved into our first apartment, I insisted on painting our living room a trendy cranberry color. To this day, I still claim it’s the closest we’ve ever come to divorcing.
Mr. V seems to think my desire to paint is insane.
I think I’m normal.
I’d like to hear your two cents.