Addicted to House Porn


OK. So I have a problem.

Alright, fine. Admittedly, I have more than just one problem, but at this particular junction in my life, I have a problem that is more pressing than all the others. (If you know anything about me, you know that this is really saying something. I am, after all, the girl who is allergic to wheat and the planet, has pet moss balls, and can’t eat Jell-o because “it feels icky in my mouth.”)

Hi, I’m Katie, and I’m addicted to porn.

(Mom, please sit down and breathe into that paper bag you’re holding.)

It's not the porn like you’re thinking, I promise.

I’m not addicted to watching people do the horizontal mambo or viewing fetish videos about grandmothers with nice toes.(I Google a lot. So sue me.)

Because while I know that is what most people think of as porn, it doesn’t get my motor running. As far as I’m concerned, that video clip of the naughty schoolgirl is about as sexy to me as hand-washing the dishes.

What makes me tick?



What's that, baby? You painted your builder-grade cabinets white and installed a butcher-block counter top to add class and sophistication to what was a boring, unimaginative kitchen? And you built a shelf below the cabinets for easy access to frequently used items? Oh, God. Don't stop. Please don't stop.


That's right, folks. I'm addicted to house porn.

You can keep your 50 Shades of Gray or your Pirates of the Carribean porno. I've experienced both and found them to be pretty meh. But give me a good, tiled backsplash and hubba-hubba. Call the fire department, Carter [my husband], because it's about to get hot in here.

Yes, I know that I am awkward.

Yes, I know that I should consider the concept of an "inner monologue."

No, Carter will not divorce me, because in our pre-nup we agreed that any pets acquired during the course of the marriage would become my assets in the case of a separation. And let's face it, Carter is way too attached to Larry, Larry, and Darryl to give them up over me being inappropriate precocious fiesty a complete pain in the ass.

Just kidding. We didn't do the whole pre-nup thing. Mostly because you don't need a pre-nup when you ain't got no money. (We settled on the terms that should our marriage ever end, he gets the xBox and I get the pots and pans.) And herein lies the problem.

We're po.'

Let's establish, first of all, that I'm using the word "poor" really loosely here. I know that, compared to many people in the world and even some in this country, that I am fabulously well off. And I feel extremely blessed.

But now that we have that straight, I am an entry-level professional and newlywed with thousands of dollars in student loan debt and a fondness for fine leather goods. This is fine. We're "starting out." And everyone always tells me, and I do mean everyone, that the "lean" years will be the source of some of our fondest memories. Blah blah blah.

Long story short (or, if you're in Carter's camp, long story long), we're renting. I have applied for literally hundreds of jobs, as has Carter, and, frankly, I'm burned out. So what do I do when I'm supposed to be working or applying for hundreds more jobs?

I look at house porn. My XXX site of choice? Pinterest.

And since I'm all about airing my personal life all over my damned blog (sorry!), I'm gonna share with you some of my recent turn-ons.


 Photo from The Art of Doing Stuff

Baby, don't you know that your perfectly styled bookcases make me crazy? I mean, look at that artistically placed bowl-thing. It shows how classy you are that you have rustic bowl-thingies to place artistically on shelves. *shiver*


 Photo and design by Mona Ross Berman

What's that, Dream Kitchen? You tiled your backsplash in a fun, bright color to make the white cabinets stand out even more, making your kitchen look perpetually clean and bright? And you cut up some mother-f*ckin' fruit for me? And is that coffee I smell? Oh, you dirty, dirty kitchen. I'm gonna cook in you so frequently. You like that? You like that? You want me to host a brunch in you? Oh, you're even dirtier than I thought.


 Coop for sale from Williams-Sonoma

Stop. Just stop, rustic-yet-adorable-and-predator-proof chicken coop with coop-top herb garden. I can't take any more of your teasing. You're so bad. But so good. I just wanna put you in my backyard and then put some mother-f*ckin' chickens in you. You like the sound of that? Maybe I'll put three or four chickens in you at the same time so that they can be friends. I know. I'm soooooo bad.

As you may have guessed, in my head, all porn stars sound like a certain actor from a certain movie about certain reptiles on a certain form of transportation that may or may not involve being airborne. (ALLEGEDLY.)

This means that all of my house porn internal dialogues have taken on a very "We need to add some mother-f*ckin' window treatments to this mother-f*ckin' living room" quality.

This is problematic for a couple of reasons:

  1. It has ruined apartment-hunting for me, because in my head if a place doesn't have a reading nook, it's not even fit for animals.

  2. It has made me acutely aware of how tiny my kitchen is and so I get really passive-aggressive when I cook because no one took functionality into consideration when they built this kitchen, and by Jove would it have killed them to paint the cabinets something other than "puce"?

  3. I never want to snuggle any more, because by the time I've finished researching how to install and paint crown molding and a chair rail for an elegant dining room, I'm completely spent.

  4. It makes me want to throw away 60% of our possessions, because our apartment is "cluttered," i.e. a "hoarder nest."

I know that I just need to be patient, that someday we will own a house and I will get to bankrupt us by knocking out walls to make window-seats and an "open living space."

The reality is, however, that I will likely do none of these things. I've lived in the same apartment for over a year and have yet to hang even a picture on the wall. It's like what they say about the boys always wanting what they can't have, so as soon as you have a boyfriend they're all over you and texting you things like, "Hey girl, I know you have a boyfriend now, but wanna go to the movies with me? I'll bring gourmet rosemary-garlic popcorn and a bottle of wine discreetly hidden in a Nalgene bottle."

OK, so maybe it's not exactly like that. But I do know for a fact that, if I don't have you to hold me accountable, I will never improve any of my domiciles. So here's your homework -- when I move, you are to guilt me into decorating and then posting Before and After pictures so that you can compliment me and my design/artistic prowess.

Because I'm not needy at all.

'Til next time, y'all!

(Note: I realized that this post doesn't really have a satisfying or conclusive ending at all. But all of the house-porn pinning has exhausted me. So I'm leaving you to go recuperate by pinning some memes about Harry Potter and probably dinosaurs. And, of course, drinking plenty of water. Gotta refuel before I start researching how to build your own upholstered headboard.)

Katie Pilkington

Writer of Nested. Find me on Twitter at @nestedblog and on Pinterest, too! 


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