My sister and her family have been house-hunting lately and it's always amusing to hear the daily report of homes they had seen that day. After tromping through a hundred or so homes she's starting to become desensitized to disco-mirrored walls, velvet paintings and some really disgusting cooking smells. Last week, during one of these brief wanderings through an elderly couple's private spaces, my four-year-old niece caught sight of a (gasp) pastel pink toilet and bathtub. As my sister tells it, my dear niece was still and silent for several seconds before grabbing onto her mother's hand in a dramatic gesture of overwhelming longing-ness. With tears sparkling in her huge brown eyes and a voice quivering with desire-induced hysteria, she said firmly, "Mommy. . . this. . . is. . . MY bathroom."
A few days after this, I found myself in North Hollywood and actually pulled over, crossed the street and made a general spectacle of myself to get a snapshot of this pink house, inspired by my darling niece's passionate desire to reside in the presence of pink things. I realized later, at my computer screen, that it is actually a pink apartment house, which is disappointing. I had spent several days musing and imagining over what sort of person might live in the big pink house in North Hollywood. I imagined a middle-aged librarian/cat lady wearing Pucci robes and fur healed slippers to water her orchids and wisteria. Now that it's just a pink apartment house. . . well, I could actually picture myself living here myself --a single gal in my younger years, certainly. And of course, I may be visiting my niece here in twenty or so years. . .
I adore my dear niece and hope she someday forgives me for recording this incident.
Happily, this car was parked directly across the street.
It made me happy to discover the pink house and the pink car together, and I hope with all sincerity that the driver of the pink VW lives in the pink apartment house.
In North Hollywood.