Since Congress doesn’t seem able to make headway in the weighty issues of the day, I’ve decided they should get the following law on the books post-haste:
“Each person purchasing a home over two million dollars with the means to sink another two mil into their décor must submit a plan detailing the type of décor, the reason for liking it and why they’re choosing to include the items they’ve selected if they can’t actually identify their decorating style.”
So what inspired me to take to my self-righteous, home décor bully-pulpit? I watched Posh Beckham’s show which is called something like Coming to America. It profiles her arrival with her soccer playing husband. Part of the show covered her as she’s introduced to fellow richies in Beverly Hills and the cameras follow Posh as she looks at homes she may or may not purchase.
I found myself thinking the ultra-wealthy simply can’t be trusted to decorate their own homes.
I’ve known for a long time that wealth doesn’t guarantee taste and I realize that the very people I denigrate would enter my home and be repulsed in the same way I was while watching their homes flash upon my TV.
However, my decorating has been handicapped by so many variables that listing them here would just depress the readers, but I can promise that the most prohibitive factor in creating an upscale yet warm environment is in fact, money.
So what the hell happens to all these people when they’ve finally lined their pockets with enough cash to splurge on the home of their dreams? Could velvet wall-paper, silky curtains so shiny you can see your reflection in them and lacquered black surfaces covering 9/10ths of the table-tops really be the stuff fantasies are made of?
And while my claws are out I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest that the décor law be extended to those ultra-richies who cannot stop at just five plastic surgeries. Seriously. One should not alter the landscape of their person (for purely recreational purposes) more than five times without written consent from Christy Brinkley’s personal shopper/beauty consultant.
Watching Posh throw back whiskey shots with women who have turned themselves into cartoons was just too much. Don’t get me wrong. My biggest fear about getting plastic surgery (besides being in the percentage of people who get a staph infection) is that I couldn’t stop at just one surgery. Like redecorating the home, once you paint the living room, there’s the couch to deal with, the flooring, accessories. Where would I begin? Where would I stop? I am the person who would most need the law I’ve proposed. But at least I realize my weakness which allows me to reenter the world of self-righteousness, right?
Yes, I realize the control is in my hands. I don’t have to watch reality TV. I have the power to just say no, to turn off the TV or change the channel—the history channel is readily available for viewing, but in life there are so few times to feel truly superior and tonight, watching that freak show, I felt damn ordinary and damn glad that I am.