It's Oh So Quiet

I have laryngitis. I don't know if this has ever happened to you, but it's really very annoying. Thank goodness I can still type (although watch me get fingeritis next, because that's how the MF cookie has been crumbling around here). I do realize things could be much much worse (I got to eat pizza last night!), and so I hereby do solemnly swear that no talk of illness shall issue forth from my fingers next week. It will all be sunshine, rainbows and sparkle puppies licking bubblegum ice cream cones with unicorns on top.

But that's next week. Today we are headed to the quiet box.

Tom Scheerer

Via Nero Chronicles

I think you can read.

Via Head Over Heels

Erin Martin Design

I'm not dead yet (imagine my best Monty Python impression), so I would like to spend my convalescence in a room that is quiet, yes -- relaxing and soothing. But also interesting. There has to be a little something something going on to inspire me to fully recover and conquer truly urgent, earth shattering problems, like how am I going to wean Ike off all this horrible TV I've been letting him watch while we both lay on the couch like plague infested slugs?

I promise. No talk of sickness next week. Not one word.

Quirky

Back in the day, tattooed coffee tables and UV activated wallpaper were the kind of things that turned me on. I will admit to a streak of freak running wild through my tender veins, but age has tempered the magnitude of my rebellion against the norm. I still hate a white bread and mayonnaise sandwich like Damien Hirst hates poverty, but I no longer feel the need to shock and awe. Right now I shoot for The Prick (no, not that one) -- The Prick as in punctum, the little detail that pierces the veil of blahness and sends a shiver of life from tip to toes.

Like this:

Erin Martin's room in Elle's San Francisco showhouse absolutely slays me. The custom light fixture has Louise Bourgeois written all over it, and the little altar is straight genius. This room is lean, mean, and damned sophisticated. Found via The Nero Chronicles.

Or how about this room in Patrice Gruffaz's home? Someone's been snacking on magic mushrooms again.

And I am absolutely consumed by Pierre Passebon's fireplace. There are a lot of weird details in this apartment, but that fireplace haunts my dreams, and when I can't stop fixating on things then I know they're good. Really good.

It's that little bit of obsession that makes me feel alive.

And crazy.