Soundtrack to Mary

I should preface everything by saying that for me the scariest scene in Rosemary’s Baby was not when the middle-aged Satan worshippers drugged Mia Farrow and forced her to have “relations” with the Beast Master, thus planting the seed of Lucifer in her waif-like womb. For me, the real horror began when, upon moving into their lovely turn-of-the-century Manhattan apartment, Mia Farrow promptly painted all of the woodwork white and the walls a cheery lemon yellow. Now that’s when I had to shield my eyes.

I realize that personal taste is far too subjective a topic for me to get into in this tiny column, so I’ll cut to the quick. If you have a holiday-specific windsock hanging anywhere off your house, chances are good that you also have at least one room inside that is wallpapered. I can safely say that you wouldn’t like me.

Who exactly invented wallpaper? Mr. Tacky McJackass? Is there a photo of him in Ruin My Life Digest? I bet if I looked closely I would see horns hiding in his combover.

While going through the arduous process of buying a house, I stood half-graying out as the housing inspector rattled off terms like “irrigational gulches” and “joist rod integrity.” Eyes rolling back in my head, all I could think about was how I was going to remove that Holly Hobbie crap, installed by some country music-lovin’ adult doll collector, from my soon-to-be kitchen walls! Home Depot, meet Lucia. Lucia, meet your new best friend.

“Don’t worry, I’m removing that and redoing the walls myself,” I bragged to everyone on their first tour of the new crib. Normally I don’t let my mouth write a check my ass can’t cash, but who am I kidding? I’ve never done anything like this. I can’t even peel the price tag off a glass picture frame without becoming frustrated and pitching it in the trash.

As I write this, I am knee-deep in my first-ever home-improvement project, feeling like the anti-archaeologist. The further I scrape and dig, the less I’ll find—or so I pray. I’m calling people I barely know in the middle of the night to ask for advice, having judged their level of handiness on the fact that I’ve seen them open a bottle of wine skillfully. But I have no choice. For me to live with this wallpaper is like being told at the closing that I would have to wear the previous homeowner’s clothes for the rest of my life. Trust me, you don’t want to see me in a Brooks and Dunn concert T-shirt and stretch pants. The wallpaper is history.


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