Serenata Guest House Bed. Entirely Viggo-worthy
Now, you may not know this about me. I don’t know what you know about me, other than, you know, the obvious: has tentacles, worships Cthulhu, lives in dungeon, keeps human slaves (remember the Versace Twins?), enjoys torturing Jezebel readers and cancer fakers. Everybody knows that stuff.
But what you may not know is just exactly what kind of a housekeeper I am.
Let me put it this way: while nobody has actually fainted, several people have screamed. The Christmas wreath is still on my front door, quietly gathering dust just as it has been since Christmas 2005. At least I finally took the tree down, and any day now I may wash some dishes. You never know.
I hate housework. You make the beds, you wash the dishes, and six months later you have to start all over again.
In any case, I have been known to make my bed up with cotton saris when all my sheets are in the laundry, which does make for a colourful little nest if not exactly (as I found out one warm and sweaty night) colourfast. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is entirely possible to go to bed stone cold sober and wake up paisley.
So, you can imagine that my apartment is not fit for company more often than perhaps once a millennium and that shortly before I move in. Indeed, the squalor is such that even in my daydreams my fantasy lovers and I always go back to their place (and let me just say that Steve Jobs has a lovely houseboat in an isolated cove about a ten minute walk and short flight of ancient stone steps from my house…) but where was I? Right, bitching about my own housekeeping on the blog instead of, you know, keeping house. Well, I keep it; I just keep it in squalor, that’s all.
In any case, however it may be, verily it was said unto them, that last month when I was up in Penticton speaking at the EatDrinkTweet social media for winemakers conference (two words, people: GOODY BAG!) the lovely and fragrant Allison Markin arranged for me to stay at the Serenata Guesthouse, and finally finally I slept in a bed that was suitable for my dream lovers. Silk and cotton with a thread count higher than I can count (without taking off my shoes, that is), with bolsters and pillows and shams and actuals and feathers in everything. I could easily have stayed there the entire weekend, particularly because I stayed up till 4am every night and as I may have mentioned, there was wine involved.
And then I got my friend Rebecca Coleman to immortalize it in the above, so that I can refresh my memory when I imagine myself taking my dream lovers home in the future. It’s so important to furnish one’s imagination well, don’t you think?