Personally, I try to sidle away when women my age start in about their redecorating projects. “And then the contractor came with the fireplace tile, and it didn’t even begin to go with the wallpaper! Can you believe it, after I gave him a swatch? And then–” No! Nooooooo! Make it stop!
Mercifully, then, I will describe the post-floor-intsallation redecoration of my back room in a single sentence:
After tacking four Indian bedspreads to the ceiling insulation with the nail gun, I sawed, nailed and duck-taped the warps out of the ugly panelling, then used a roller and jug of Elmers (of a size ordinarily sold to kindergarten teachers on the first of September) to cover the walls with a collage of posters, wrapping paper, National Geographic and topographical maps, quilting fabric, and pages from kiddie books–everything from Krishna to glowing unicorns, blue geosynclines of the ocean around Hawaii to Where’s Waldo–then slapped some surrealist post cards and my own colored pencil sketches of local birds on top of the most atrocious-looking seams, which will eventually be framed with decorative ribbon and tinsel and fake flowers (which may light up; this needs research, but I got the idea after running into Trisane the former roller derby queen and current glam entrepreneur at the Ace Hardware on Willy Street–you know, the one with the aging black dog who wanders in and out–where she was buying soldering supplies in order to fasten LED lights into purses that will make them light up when you open them, in hopes of mimicking the success of her LED-studded hula-hoops) and plastic frogs and lizards, and highlighted with some my silver-sparkle hairspray sprayed in the dark corners before I spray on the final layer of Fixatif, after which I will paint the trim mauve (assuming I can FIND the damn stuff, which has been squirreled away in the basement and up in the rafters of the workshop the entire time we’ve owned the house), and then ring the break between the top of the stupid panelling (which this whole concoction is designed to cover up) and the ceiling–a bit of real estate that has up until now been sort of a condominium complex for mice (one of whom I caught Mike [the cat, not my brother] chowing down on before I went running this morning)–with a circle of branches swathed in fake leaves, flowers, fruits and birdies.