As the foremost skilled inside stylist in the proudly gated neighborhood of East Albacore, Florida, I, Clarisse Harbley-Gargle (pronounced “Garjelle”), couldn’t agree extra with this assertion. In reality, I’d add that pillows are the breast implants of the headboard, and a well-considered quilt is the tongue of the boudoir. Civilians don’t notice that assembling a tasteful homescape is a scientific problem, which is why I put on a crisp white lab coat over my leopard-print chiffon jumpsuit when creating an open-concept kitchen/nice room, or, as I name it, Clarisse Without Borders.
Our Great Room should embody a sectional couch, which is the decrease colon of the sitting space. Atop the sectional, contrasting but coördinated throw pillows function the militia of our upholstery, defending our mixed ottoman, love seat, and chaise from accusations of “being like two couches shoved together.” Internet feedback could be so merciless, particularly the ones from my estranged grownup youngsters. A hearth, the overheated genitalia of the room’s leisure pelvis, might be surmounted by a sixty-inch flat-screen.
Cashmere throws ought to be strewn throughout welcoming armchairs like bandages on an oozing tweed sore. A espresso desk, the rectum of any internet hosting zone, ought to be enticing and purposeful, overflowing with stacks of artwork books, bloodstained marble candlesticks, and courtroom orders. Remember, your Great Room ought to encourage friends to exclaim, “What a great room, Clarisse! I feel like I’m in a home appealingly staged to be sold following a vicious tabloid divorce!”
Custom cabinetry, the coronary heart and lungs of our kitchen’s chest cavity, should be full of neutral-toned, natural flax and bran cereals decanted into matching semitransparent bins bought throughout a manic spending spree at the Container Store after the discovery of a partner’s a number of infidelities, for a sense of “I need to hurt him with expensive homewares the way he savaged me with a SoulCycle instructor named Dyanne.” A farmhouse sink, a double oven, and a walk-in microwave full our parade of fixtures and home equipment. Sometimes I get pleasure from leaving these in crates piled in the center of the room, after I can’t cease obsessing over my mom’s remarks about my style in males. I’m sorry, Mom, however I don’t “pick husbands as if they were IKEA area rugs—cheap, too small, and ugly.”
Clients typically ask me, “Clarisse, do I really need a home office?,” to which I reply, “A home office is the appendix of a residence’s digestive system: it will never be used, but for some reason it’s there.” I like to embody an immaculate glass slab of a desk, with an artfully opened MacBook displaying a dishonest husband’s latest e-mails to a Tampa hand mannequin /entrepreneur together with her personal line of sweatpants silk-screened with pictures of rich pet-store-franchise house owners.
As I strategy the grasp tub, I at all times remind myself, “Clarisse, we don’t call it a master bath anymore, because that word is offensive.” Now I exploit the phrases “primary bath,” “main bath,” or “Le Poopatorium.” The rest room is the cherished secret that our dwelling reveals solely to friends who’ve eaten my particular Shrimp Chowder with Herb Drop Biscuits Casserole. It should function double sinks that seem like accusing eyeballs gushing bitter teardrops, a bathe stall that can seem in the realtor.com itemizing as a fifth bed room, and a soaking tub expansive sufficient to maintain a decapitated physique in an eventual “Dateline” episode entitled “Designed to Kill.” A very luxurious, spa-like rest room will permit any betrayed partner to apply her make-up earlier than a well-lit vainness mirror whereas she listens to the wails of her husband as he discovers that the locks have been modified and his golf trophies and male-support clothes are out in the avenue.
So we finish our tour in the most commodious bed room, now not referred to as the “master” however as the Room Where Love and Other Things Died. The bedside tables are the ears of our suite, the classic Murano lamps might be our Q-tips, and the dressing space shall be what I name My Birkin Museum. I’ve been requested, “Clarisse, is your design philosophy based entirely on your own bad choices, heartbreak, and inadequate settlement cash?” To which I reply, “I never liked you, Amber-Janine. The CoolSculpting on your lower-back fat is uneven, and you’re no longer my second-best friend.” ♦