Back when I bought this house, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Jesus played beer pong with me in college (He’s fucking better than I am), I thought that the living room was the least offensive of all the rooms in my house.
The tiny downstairs bathroom had three (THREE!!!) types of wallpaper. The upstairs bedroom was painted Pepto-Bismol pink. The dining room was Cat Pee on Plasterboard colored. The kitchen was (is) some variation of taupe that (still) makes me want to heave whenever I look at it. The family room is painted 3 different motherfucking colors.
So the living room? Not on my radar. Like pants!
That was, until, of course, I had two babies and major abdominal surgery and had to stare at the walls in the living room (also known as the “front room” to those of you who come from places that start with N and end in Dakota). The white looked dingier by the moment. There was a single roller swatch of pure white behind the french doors. The ceiling was a fucking mess.
Take this shot, from the day I closed the deal on the house.
Looks fine. Besides, of course, the awful furniture, which IS NOT FUCKING MINE.
See? It LOOKS not…so bad! Probably because you’re distracted by the fug furniture.
That wall needs something…else. But I don’t know what.
Sorry, no shot of my ass this time.
I’m still not entirely certain what the room needs, but it needs…moar. Cowbell? Vodka? Perhaps. Or perhaps I should go score that sweet couch on the side of the road, for old times sake.
I’m afraid that if you don’t help me, I’m going to end up with a Fat Head of me on one of the walls.