I grew up in a cluttered house. And by cluttered, I mean, I grew up in my grandparents’ house. Alone, they’re pack-rats by nature; combined; it’s like when Harry, Ron and Hermione were nearly buried alive under mounds and mounds of treasure at Gringotts.
Shit was everywhere. Jiddo (that’s ‘grandpa’ in Lebanese lingo, or, Arabic) would buy and buy bunches of shit; either ordered from a catalog back in the day, or in ridiculous bulk quantities once Costco (aka Price Club) came around. Teta (‘grandma’), meanwhile, would keep it all — they even purchased a living-room set with little nooks and hidey-holes built into it — just so she could keep it all. And I mean, the fucking couch that you were sitting on had a seat that could be lifted up, just so you could store some more shit in it…
I have visited the treasure-trove that is their garage many a time when looking for the most random items: a set of sturdy kitchen knives; an ornate serving bowl; various tools, extension cords — even a power drill — and found them all. So it’s got its upside, for sure.
But inside, where numerous ironed button-downs hang on various weapons placed above the fireplace, it feels oppressive and chaotic. There’s enough chaos to contend with in life; I don’t need it in my living space; thanks.
‘Course now in my own living space that I share with my husband and two kiddos, I’m starting to feel like the toys are slowly taking over…but back at Teta’s and Jiddo’s — it was often a nightmare.
So my sense of style when it comes to my space is clean; minimal. Uncluttered.
For the most part. Because toys.
It’s very easy to slip into boring if this reserved décor is not done right — I’m slowly…slowly figuring it out. But overall, I am wired to delude myself into thinking I’m in control of at least a few things in my life. And the way I choose to decorate my space is just one example.