Blinded by the blinds

Not all of my adventures in domesticity earn accolades. Sure, there's the occasional wine rep that wants me to moonlight as a caterer, (yes, flattery will work on me and I'll buy more wine) but there are many, many, many other domestic failures that keep me humbled.

A few months ago at a party, we locked Jingle in our room so she wouldn't molest the guests as they entered the house. She found this imprisonment rather offensive, and proceeded to eat the wood slat blinds that adorn the french door to our bedroom so she could see the festivities outside. Months later, not only was half of the door exposed, but we still had a dog that defecated plantation shutters.

Being the kind of girl that knows this will only happen again and again, instead of replacing the broken blinds with future broken blinds, I spent a ridiculous sum on custom Roman shades from a popular fabric chain. I don't want to drop any names here, but it rhymes with "Balico Forners."

Anyhoo, after spending that ridiculous sum, ordering when on sale and then selecting from every thread, size, fixture and grommet option ever conceived, I waited three months and finally received my shades.

Ahem.

The only thing resembling "Roman" or "shade" is that they look like someone ripped off their toga after a drunken frat party and tacked them to my bedroom door. They are sloppy, unfinished and completely impractical. And the worst part is they are custom, so not only did I pay handsomely for the not-handsome window treatments, it means I'm stuck with them until I can find a naked gladiator that wants to look like a sofa.

So luckily for the world, I'm done decorating anything but a cupcake for me for a while.