See, this is why I ask you these burning questions. Would you believe it never occurred to me to simply swap out the objectionable duvet cover on a seasonal basis? A spirit of compromise not being fundamental to my nature, apparently. So, like Persephone, six months of the year I may sleep with the Dark Lord under his bedding of despair but the rest of the time I will endeavor to be covered with the gossamer wings of fairies and butterflies. Preferably in red (feel free to direct my attention if you see anything.) My days of arising to a subconscious "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" are numbered, thank you.
Personally, I liked the idea of floor-to-ceiling bookcases but Steve thought you were crazy. I assured him that I have it on highest authority that the eye "reads" bookshelves like a wall but he just sneered. He believes it would make the entry to the bedroom feel even more claustrophobic (that is not right. and yet I always use it in that context. claustrophobizing? claustrophia-inducing? can you think of something better?) Of course he has no vision. He suggested instead that we get all playful and simply continue the decorating theme from the other side of the wall. Ha ha ha ha ha. Oh, sorry, you wouldn't get that, would you? The bedroom wall in question separates the, um, well, the bedroom obviously, from Steve's office. Steve, as I have mentioned in the past, greatly enjoys taking his little bow and arrow out into the autumnal woods and tracking deer like the least of the Mohicans. Once every three years or so, an ill-fated whitetail takes the wrong turn on the wrong morning and thwwwwwwaaaaaacccckkkk! he is off to meet his ancestors. Whereupon Steve jumps up and down with glee and.... *it is best not to ponder this part too deeply*.... eventually we wind up with the head of another majestic creature of the forest. Since I will see him in hell before I have a deer head (well, any kind of severed head, really) in a living space I actually use, the herd is limited to display in Steve's office. So the joke was: Steve was suggesting that we mount a few deer from the neck down and dangle them in our bedroom as if they had, you know, leapt through the wall and stuck there. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, he's a funny one.
Before you conclude that we are going to divorce over this and about time, too, since he is nothing but a no-good murderer, I will tell you that after we finished squabbling over the bookshelves and the dearly departed, we happily settled on hanging a rug there. We love rugs. We cannot seem to stop buying rugs. Just this morning Steve actually brought a few rugs home from our dealer (that was supposed to be cutesy but actually the allusion to expensive addictions is becoming more and more apt) to try in the downstairs playroom and the front hall. Because what room o' toys and playdoh would be complete without a nice salute to the Orient? Anyway, rugs play well here. And yet it would never have occurred to us to hang one from the wall in our bedroom. Never. Because we are narrow and suburban in our outlook. So, apart from the dangerous precedent this will set (we were running out of uncovered floor space, and yet! so many beautiful rugs still to buy! what to do?) I give thanks, ye of the rug/quilt/tapestry ilk, for the suggestion. I was also quite partial to the niches, and the collection of similarly framed prints/photos, and the wallpaper and the accent wall and the mural and the mirrors (oh, come on, people, LIVE a little. just imagine the multi-tasking one could accomplish with a mirror next to the bed) and changing how the door swings (Steve pointed out that this would completely block the light switches and the intercom system and the security panel- I said good riddance, let's just live simply like the prairie dwellers of old) and everything else. I could squint and visualize each and every suggestion and they all were a marked improvement on MushroomLand.
As I said, this is why I ask you things. You always know the answer. I went back to my request for book recommendations for the last IVF vacation (I sighed a bit as I thought how much easier it would have been if some Sarah O'Connor among you had simply said, "Don't do it! It will only end badly! Stay home!") and pulled out a whole new crop of things to read. I took Nancy Mitford to Boston and have now committed myself to about six years worth of Angela Thirkell. If you like gentle English novels run, don't amble, to Angela Thirkell. So far she is like a warm bath, although it is 1935 and I am afraid a war might be about to break out. I hope not.
Hey! We went in to measure the wall a few minutes ago and I casually (oh so casually) said, "Depending upon the rug we get, we might have to do that again," and I nodded to the disgusting purple and teal bed. Steve just said, "Uh-huh." As in "Uh-huh" = "Yes".
So, just like that, you have collectively solved my major decorating woes. One blog, one million miracles.