As the foremost professional interior stylist in the proudly gated community of East Albacore, Florida, I, Clarisse Harbley-Gargle (pronounced “Garjelle”), could not agree more with this statement. In fact, I’d add that pillows are the breast implants of the headboard, and a well-considered duvet is the tongue of the boudoir. Civilians don’t realize that assembling a tasteful homescape is a scientific challenge, which is why I wear a crisp white lab coat over my leopard-print chiffon jumpsuit when creating an open-concept kitchen/great room, or, as I call it, Clarisse Without Borders.
Our Great Room must include a sectional sofa, which is the lower colon of the sitting area. Atop the sectional, contrasting yet coördinated throw pillows serve as the militia of our upholstery, defending our combined ottoman, love seat, and chaise from accusations of “being like two couches shoved together.” Internet comments can be so cruel, especially the ones from my estranged adult children. A fireplace, the overheated genitalia of the room’s entertainment pelvis, will be surmounted by a sixty-inch flat-screen.
Cashmere throws should be strewn across welcoming armchairs like bandages on an oozing tweed sore. A coffee table, the rectum of any hosting zone, should be attractive and functional, overflowing with stacks of art books, bloodstained marble candlesticks, and court orders. Remember, your Great Room should encourage guests 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 heart and lungs of our kitchen’s chest cavity, must be filled with neutral-toned, organic flax and bran cereals decanted into matching semitransparent bins purchased during a manic spending spree at the Container Store after the discovery of a spouse’s multiple infidelities, for a feeling 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 complete our parade of fixtures and appliances. Sometimes I enjoy leaving these in crates piled in the middle of the room, when I can’t stop obsessing over my mother’s remarks about my taste in men. I’m sorry, Mom, but I do not “pick husbands as if they were ikea area rugs—cheap, too small, and ugly.”
Clients often 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 include an immaculate glass slab of a desk, with an artfully opened MacBook displaying a cheating husband’s recent e-mails to a Tampa hand model /entrepreneur with her own line of sweatpants silk-screened with images of wealthy pet-store-franchise owners.
As I approach the master bath, I always remind myself, “Clarisse, we don’t call it a master bath anymore, because that word is offensive.” Now I use the terms “primary bath,” “main bath,” or “Le Poopatorium.” The bathroom is the cherished secret that our home reveals only to guests who’ve eaten my special Shrimp Chowder with Herb Drop Biscuits Casserole. It must feature double sinks that look like accusing eyeballs gushing bitter teardrops, a shower stall that will appear in the realtor.com listing as a fifth bedroom, and a soaking tub expansive enough to hold a decapitated body in an eventual “Dateline” episode entitled “Designed to Kill.” A truly luxurious, spa-like bathroom will allow any betrayed spouse to apply her makeup before a well-lit vanity mirror while she listens to the wails of her husband as he discovers that the locks have been changed and his golf trophies and male-support garments are out in the street.
So we end our tour in the most commodious bedroom, no longer referred to as the “master” but as the Room Where Love and Other Things Died. The bedside tables are the ears of our suite, the vintage Murano lamps will be our Q-tips, and the dressing area shall be what I call My Birkin Museum. I’ve been asked, “Clarisse, is your design philosophy based entirely on your own bad choices, heartbreak, and inadequate settlement cash?” To which I respond, “I never liked you, Amber-Janine. The CoolSculpting on your lower-back fat is uneven, and you’re no longer my second-best friend.” ♦
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