From Writer’s Digest: Describe your dream house. Where is it located? How many bedrooms? Is there a swing set in the backyard or a motorcycle? The more details, the better.
My Victorian style dream house feels like spring every day of the year. It is four stories tall (two, with a basement and attic) with a wrap around porch where I sip sweet tea and read ridiculously sappy romance novels on wicker furniture. It’s pastel pink exterior has white trim, an inversion of flowers on the dogwood trees that surround it.
If you look into the bay window on the ground floor, you can see the baby grand piano in the parlor. The house is located at the top of a hill leading down to a lake. In the backyard, the view of the infinity pool is a seamless transition into the lake at the bottom of the hill, with only the presence of the trees to mark an end of the water.
You can see all of this out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the adjoined kitchen and living room, accessible from the garage through the laundry room. Around the corner is the dining room, across from the front parlor, where a crystal chandelier hangs above a Georgian dining table. The room is used only for special occasions like holidays or with company.
The house has five bedrooms. The master bedroom is on the first floor with its own fireplace and french doors leading to the backyard. My corner is occupied by an oversized reading chair next to the nightstand which is decorated by framed family pictures and a standing pocket sized edition of Kahlil Gibran’s, The Prophet. The wooden armoire on the other side of the room holds the little evidence that a man is present. It is only in the three car garage, lined with hockey sticks, posters of old sports automobiles, and t-shirts that have now become wash clothes used to wax the cars, that his decorative tastes are showcased.
A guest room is located on the opposite end of the house, across the living room. It is connected to the study where books populate the ceiling high shelves, so my librarian mom feels at home when she visits. There is a door separating the rooms, in case anyone needs to finish late night work at the desk.
There are three bedrooms upstairs, two of which are occupied by little girls. Each have their own bathroom. They both spend a bulk of their free time in the game room arguing over which TV shows to watch, but eventually agree that whoever is not surfing the internet on the shared computer at the time, gets full control over the remote.
One inherited my love of pink and has a room that looks like a cotton candy machine malfunctioned inside of it. The other was adopted (by the same agency her grandparents found me through) and has a recklessly independent streak, painting her room dark blue just to spite me.
The last bedroom is used as my office, where I work from home after establishing myself as successful in something to the point where I have outgrown a traditional corporate setting. I sit at my desk with two fat, sleepy dachshunds at my feet. When I start to feel restless, I walk out onto the balcony with them for fresh air and laugh as they bark at every passing squirrel.
The basement is used mostly for storage or shelter in case of possible tornado, but it’s a favorite spot for playing hide and seek.