Some girls dream of growing up and getting married, white weddings and white fences, three kids and four karats. Not me. I always thought I'd die young in a long, silk nightgown at the Château Marmont with only my loyal agent (a grey-haired man with mafia connections) to mourn my death, since I'd long ago been abandoned by my many lovers and my pet monkey, Sebastian, who could no longer bear to watch me waste my talent in a haze of debilitating, yet glamorous drug addiction.
Well, things don't always work out as you plan.
My agent dropped me after my forgettable turn as Kiki, the Martian secretary. No matter, his style was more Sigma Epsilon that Cosa Nostra, anyway. And slowly my childhood dream of living in a hotel died, too. But still, my nesting gene failed to take hold. Perhaps it was because I hadn't lived in one place longer than a year since I was thirteen. With one exception: I lived in an awesome apartment in LA for 18 months. At the one year mark, I planned to move. When my mom asked why, I responded, "This place is dirty." She said, "Clean it." That was a eureka moment for me. And my carpet. (Ew.) Nevertheless, you can't keep a good woman down, so six months later, I packed up.
Flash forward several years: I don't, as I once dreamed, have oodles of money and no real friends. I am not the maladjusted actress I'd once hoped. Instead I became a maladjusted writer. And then I met Dan. He was smart, and sweet, and funny, and disarmingly attractive. The kind of guy who makes a girl want to stay still. And I knew my dad was right when he said, "Don't fuck this up, Brooke." And I haven't.
So we move in together. Into a real home. Now instead of beer, batteries, and a pack of smokes, my fridge is full of food. Real food. The kind that has to go into an oven. And I find myself having conversations about the merits of the color taupe. And the necessity of pans. (Who knew?) And just as I began to think I'd done it, I'd duped 'ol Dan, pulled the wool over his eyes, I realized the jokes on me: I've been domesticated.
As evidence, a few weeks ago, we went to HOME DEPOT (!!!). Sure, I moped and whined and sat on the floor and refused to buy different doorknobs when the apartment came with perfectly good doorknobs. [Ed. Note: The doorknobs really were fine . . . in 1972.] But eventually, I got on board. Wooed as I was by the many, many colors of paint. And the shiny brass shower rods. But mostly the paint. We were going to paint! Like in a romantic comedy. I already had my painting outfit picked out: overalls (natch), hair in a bandana, and an adorable smudge of paint on my cheek. It was going to be awesome.
And after many backbreaking hours and with much help from our design guru neighbor [Ed note: Shout out to Kim “the Cutter” Upstairs Neighbor, because I don’t know your real last name], we finally finished. The lovely bedroom color is like a sage/moss hybrid if Hazelnut Coffee Mate had been poured in, making it lighter and creamy. (For the men: It's green.) It makes me happy.
The office, on the other hand, didn't go quite as smoothly. We painted it what I thought was a pale yellow. As soon as we finished, I knew I hated it. Dan said it would look different when it dried. But the hideous color taunted me. That night I had a terrible nightmare that I was being chased by angry circus clowns wearing neon yellow tracksuits. (I'd inhaled a lot of paint.) I awoke in a cold sweat and went into the office. Dan was right – it looked different. It was BRIGHT YELLOW. It looked like the Moulin Rouge had thrown up. I couldn't live like that.
Brooke: “Dan, wake up. It's important.”
Dan: (confused) “What's wrong? Are you ok?”
Brooke: “It's making me angry.”
Brooke: “The yellow. I feel angry. We have to paint tomorrow.”
Dan: “No. Absolutely not.”
So the next day, we painted the office again. This time
And as I look around my new home, with no plans of leaving anytime soon, I realize that maybe it's not so bad being fenced in as long as it's with someone you love – and birth control. Tons of birth control. Cause I'm not going to let some filthy brat mess up our new place.
* [Ed. Note: While in bed that night, we wondered if we could get jobs naming paints. So we made a list of possible colors. Some of my favorites were Curried Peach Schnapps, Robot Arm, Milkweed, Burnt Face, Light Black, Androgynous Water and Hairy Pony. I could do this for hours.]