Let's be a condo in 1986.

I'm the Nagel print. I got it at Poster Hut.

chrome and black leather everywhere

I'm the neighbors' Shar Pei. Yes s apostrophe. We all have one.

I'm in Florida so I have a beachy theme! And the kind of substandard construction that can only come from being financed by cocaine! I was built by guys on cocaine with building codes bribed into existence by cocaine! One of my load bearing walls is cocaine!

I'm Ethel. I was a Ziegfeld Follies girl and if you think I'm paying maintance fees to smell that Indian doctor's curry, you got another thing coming.

I'm the halogen torchere, a watered down PoMo tripod of long slender rubberized grey-black legs on hemispherical feet.

Don't look into my light or I will fry your eyes like a bug.

I’m the suite of black lacquer bedroom furniture. Lacquer really is the best surface for chopping up some lines.

I'm the en suite trash compactor who in the hell thought I was a good idea?

I'm the residue of cocaine on the bathroom sink.

I'm the balloon bouquets for the May Mixer. Holy shit! I cost $40?!?

I'm the Jane Fonda workout on VHS.

I'm the clear lamp filled with sea shells

I'm the decorative soap in the bathroom, shaped like seashells.

I'm the relief felt when your insomniac, nextdoor neighbor, the writer, finally trades his loud ass Smith Corona in for a word processor, followed by the fear when you hear his screaming and slamming of things. His curses are so pedestrian uncolorful, no wonder he only gets rejection letters at the shared mailbox.

We're the cans of Tab in the fridge.

I'm the GQ magazine, every time I try to read it I find it on my son's night stand. The way he dresses you would never know he was so interested in male fashion.

I'm the LeBaron convertible down in underground parking. Burgundy with a white top! Cyndi Lauper cassette in the player, ready to roll.

I'm the potted palm in the corner; I'm the chintz pastel print cushioned wicker furniture. The Maltese is the only one who loves me.

I'm Shira. I guess this Chernobyl thing is going to put the kibosh on my trip to the old country. There goes my sublet.

I'm the Golden Girls in real time playing on the Sony Trinitron in the corner. All my friends come over on Saturday nights for Zima and brie to watch those wacky seniors whoop it up in Miami!

I'm the faux SW themed decor with peaches and pale turquoises instead of actual colors seen in the SW.

Paraphilias often occur together

I’m the last of the summer quaaludes.

Not even the "Let's be a condo in 1986" thread is safe from TRANS!!!

r22 are you lost? LOL r24

I'm the Mid Century Modern and 50's stuff unloaded on a young guy with his first place. Sure, that orange chair from Mom has great memories, but this is the 80's. Time to get with it. I'm sold in a lot for $100 to a gay man with a Uhaul and the orange chair is put on the curb. This is a Haverty's home.

I'm the headboard shaped like a sea shell and a pink neon light flamingo.

I'm a Patrick Nagel painting

I am a painting of the ocean spread over 3 pieces hung together. This is some artsy stuff!

I'm the "Euro" cabinets in the kitchen and bathrooms. I am all the rage from 1985 to 1990.

I am nothing than a layer of plastic veneer covering particle board, with some fake wood trim added for extra "glamour."

Future generations will be left to scratching their heads and wondering "what the hell was I thinking?"

Behold, Lisa Whelchel's condo (1986). The only thing missing is a Nagel.

I am the glass coffee table and all the brass accents

I'm the red high heeled shoe phone. If I was a straight guy I'd be my sports illystrated football phone

I'm the (even more) juvenile edition of R33 - a hamburger flip phone.

I'm the Jenn-Air Grill. I hope those Albanians in 4B clean their grease filter as much as they wash their Trans Am.

I'm the water bed and white shag carpeting

I'm the ficus tree in the forest green plastic pot. Water me, but not too much. No! That's a mililiter too much. How in the hell do you not know the metric system. Save me Jimmy Carter!

I'm the brass trinkets to go with r32's table. I can be had for a song at Wicks'n'Sticks. We're all jealous of the tree with delicate brass leaves. Yes. Even the lion

I'm the Lean Cuisines. You can save the plate to heat up hotdogs!

I'm the speakers with bass. A lot of bass. You all hate me

I'm the guys in 7A. You all loved us when we took in your mail, brought you Orange Julius after your hysterectomy. Babysat your Shar Pei, he bites! when things got dicey at work. Now James is sick. Nary a casserole.

I’m pastels and pine.

I'm the MTV. Where's the Martha Quinn?

I'm the saltwater aquarium. I hear the exclamations of "Holy fuck, what do you mean we can't go on vacation to Fire Island without having a pet sitter!?" "This is exactly the reason I have fish as pets". That and how the black laquer sets off the Yellow Tangs.

I'm the pampas grass

I'm the Elephant Ears

I'm the wooden hot tub in the pool area.

I'm the mullets on the guys having anal in the bedroom.

I'm the white Reeboks, thick white tube socks, short-shorts, and tight polo shirts on the bedroom floor.

I'm that one guy with the moustache who won't leave

I'm the refrigerator stuffed with Dove bars and wine coolers.

I am the salty, corrosive air that wafts through the peeking deck.

I’m paint splatter effect upholstery

I'm the Sears Mushroomwear canister set. What?! I'm not even 10 years old! I match the cafe curtains!

I'm the bidet. How come nobody chooses me as an add on? The trash compactor? Seriously? Wash your ass!

I'm the track lighting. Look at my dimmer switch

I'm the sundried tomatoes. It's also what you call the semiretired hooker in 3Fs tits at the pool

I'm the Julio Iglesias album playing on the turntable in the glossy black stereo case.

It's called a triptych, R29.

I’m M’lady’s bedroom

It's another think coming, R5.

I’m the Ray-ban Wayfarers casually tossed on R32. I must admit I look great with your feathered haircut and oP (Ocean Pacific) T-shirt!

Will hello...I'm Brendad Ickson. No firthur explantination is neccesary.

Thank God it wasn’t born till 1991 this sounds awful

I'm the real estate agent showing the condo, hoping the nympho who lives directly above is late getting home this afternoon before she starts making the beams creak with the action from her waterbed.

I'm a Harman/Kardon amplifier, Bose speakers, and a Technics turntable. I rest on a console filled with albums, including "Whitney Houston," "Make it Big" by Wham!, the Miami Vice soundtrack, and "Songs from the Big Chair" by Tears for Fears.

At the moment, "Purple Rain" by Prince sits gathering dust on the idle turntable.

I'm Seafoam Green paint on the walls. I am to green what Pepto-Bismol is to pink.

[quote] I'm a Harman/Kardon amplifier, Bose speakers, and a Technics turntable.

That sounds very cool, actually.

I'm the black, overhead, canister lighting. Plug a 100-watt bulb into me and I'll give out 25 watts of light.

I'm a Rubik's Cube on a bookshelf. I am not solved and I never will be. In fact, the next time I'm touched will be in 1993, and only so I can be hurled into a contractor bag with the rest of the moving-day trash.

It is, R69. The turntable, bought on the recommendation of an audiophile friend, is a Technics SL1200 Mk2.

I'm several Swatch watches on the dresser.

I’m the glass dining table held up by a shiny brass pedestal base with accented by pastel fabric covered parsons chairs.

The chandelier hanging above me is the finest etched glass and brass light fixture available at Montgomery Wards.

I'm the ashtrays in every room.

I’ll be the wicker.

I'm the living room

[quote]R5 I'm Ethel. I was a Ziegfeld Follies girl and if you think I'm paying maintance fees to smell that Indian doctor's curry, you got another thing coming.

[quote] R62 It's another think coming

That’s always grated on my ear. Shouldn’t it be “you’ve got another thought coming”?

“Thing” makes more sense grammatically (?)

I'm the wall of glass blocks, or whatever the fuck this shit was called.

I'm a few kicky, budget-busting Memphis-inspired pieces here and there, and none of them comfortable enough to use.

I'm the glass brick half-wall. No, I didn't look good even back then.

I'm the new classical music collection, on compact disc. The new CD player and receiver are made by Kyocera, and the speakers are B&W Matrix 1. Who needs to re-buy all those old pop LPs?

I'm the mirrored coffee table. I've been cleaned up for the photo but last night I was covered in lines of cocaine, straws and razor blades, bottles of Heineken, ashtrays, packs of Marlboro Lights and New Order's "Pumped Full Of Drugs" album.

I’m the villain, clad in black tie, escorting Desmondia Van Arpell to a seat on a low-slung sofa of avant-garde design. Her enormous snow-white boobs are brought to immaculately glacial crest in the cinched-waist pouf dress of metallic-silver-blue satin designed by some impossibly exclusive salon in Milan. Careful not to put an eyeball out on her shoulder pads or cheekbones, I bow slightly while making the offer of a 68-year-old bourbon. She nods, sneeringly. I have just unstoppered the Art Deco Lalique decanter when the buzzer sounds. “That’ll be the little actor chap I met while were calling your dealer,” Desmondia says, examining her perfect manicure. “Richard or Ronald or something. He’s evidently the lead in a film called Less Than Zero.” She drops an astonishing wink. “I really like to see two beautiful guys getting it on, Patrick. It brings out the multiple-orgasm-giving slut in me.”

I am otherwise known as “the brochure for the development”.

I’m the spider lamp, aka the STAR of this show. Just above the splayed fan as art pieces.

I'm vertical blinds. I screen the sliding French doors that lead to the balcony.

I looked good for about 72 hours after I was installed. Then the cat got into it with me. Now I'm grimy and I can't be cleaned and my chains are tangled and I'll look like shit for the next 9 years until I'm torn out.

I used to be a condo built in 1986, typical shoddy mess. But the rebar got damaged by sea air, the and then I collapsed.

I’m the Plymouth Reliant Kcar parked in the designated parking spot. My owner spent all his money on the condo and had a slim budget for a vehicle. Yes, I’m parked next to the fancy BMW owned by the idiot next door. Twenty years later the BMW’s owner will be arrested for bankruptcy fraud...and the Plymouth’s owner will still have the bigger dick.

I’m the sea-foam green toilet trio…seat cover, tank cover, and urine-soaked toilet rug.

I am the 100 million dollars needed to bring the 1980s Miami condo up to code.

I am the surplus of 1980s condos in So Florida that are now worthless, as the inhabitants can't afford to make necessary repairs and potential buyers can't get mortgages.

I am the vague waft of "Obsession for Men" that hangs in the air as my owner walks out the door for a night of clubbing.

Well, look who’s the shag rug! It’s ME! Am I not just the very thing in my irrepressible orangeness?!

And you just pay no mind to that part of me that’s oddly squished. That’s the spot where my owner and his friends play Twister on the weekends.

Upon closer look I am r1's Nargle print.

[quote][R62] It's another think coming

[quote]That’s always grated on my ear. Shouldn’t it be “you’ve got another thought coming”?

[quote]“Thing” makes more sense grammatically (?)

R77 "thing" makes grammatical sense, but the saying is the saying because it utilizes parallel structure. think > think

I am the VHS collection, carefully curated because these tapes are expensive, so my owner wants to get a good balance between tapes that he'll enjoy and tapes his friends might want to watch.

Current highlights include "Back to the Future," "National Lampoon's Vacation.," and "Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome." That last one really wows 'em on the 25" Zenith.

I'm the Dolfin and OP corduroy shorts strewn around.

I fit like men's shorts should fit. I will be thrown out in the next 2-3 years as "jams" come in and shorts get relentlessly longer and baggier.

I am pointy-toed suede John Fluevog creepers kicked off at the foot of the bed.

I’m the songs from Miami Vice, softly playing on the radio.

I'm the cable box on top of the tv. You have to aim the remote DIRECTLY at my center if you want to change the channel. If you try to hit me from the side you won't get shit. And don't even think about standing any more than 15 feet away from me 'cause you won't get shit from that either.

I’m the empty bottles of New York Seltzer in the trash. I won’t be recycled.

I'm the brown leather bomber jacket hanging by the door. I was purchased at that wacky safari store Banana Republic after my owner saw Harrison Ford in the most recent Indiana Jones movie and got a boner.

On the little table by the door, ready to go, I am a Sony Walkman with foam-ear headphones. In me is this cassette:

I am the landline telephone. Occasionally when you pick me up you can hear the goodie two shoe next door neighbor's conversation about the hot Mexican dick she just hired on.

I’m the salmon coloured leatherette couch and checkered vinyl flooring.

I'm the import music magazine dedicated to Depeche Mode. I saw their videos on MTV and Friday Night Videos and sometimes masturbate to the blonde twink in fetish gear.

I'm the copies of Spy Magazine and Film Threat.

I'm the wine coolers in the fridge for when the girls come over

I'm IKEA. There's not one damn thing from me in this whole condo.

There are a couple items from Conran, though.

I’m the selfstick vine & leaf border with mauve accents decorating the top of the kitchen walls. My scalloped edges complete the look.

(I also do a number on the walls when you try to remove years later.)

I'm the pesto pasta.

I was prepared on the beige stove and am sitting on the beige counter below the beige cupboards.

I'm R65. If only I knew what I missed out on.

On second thought, it's better for my sanity if I believe the 80s sucked and life today is as good as it's ever been.

Fast forward 36 years. I'm still the same.

Queens on DL salivate at the thought of owning me now that I'm worth 700,000.

Gotta love the Best Coast.

We're the white shaker cabinets, white subway tile, granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances, the apex of early 21st century design trends. We're pondering our sad future, when in 10 years we will end up in the dumpster, just like our "hottest in design trend" friends from 1986.

I’m the saved ticket stub from POLICE ACADEMY 3. Steve Guttenberg is sensational!

I'm mauve vases.

I am everywhere.

I'm the floor humidifiers. There must be many of us, in all the corners and in the additional corners you must build to buy and use more of us! And we're loud, we have to be loud enough to drown out your continually watched new and videotaped "Golden Girls" episodes.

I'm a new set of Fiestaware, made again this year for the first time since 1973. I'm a Bloomingdale's exclusive and I come in Rose, Black, Cobalt, White, and Apricot.

I’m the Trivial Pursuit board game atop the glass-and-faux-brass coffee table. My owner has memorized all of the questions and will wager a 4-pack of Bartles & Jaymes coolers that her team will trounce yours.

I’m the bold, primary-colored tops with asymmetrical zippers flung carelessly on the papasan chair from Pier 1. We hail from Merry Go around at the Galleria and the International Male catalogue that we filched from the mailroom. Both of us smell of Drakkar Noir and clove cigarettes.

[quote]Queens on DL salivate at the thought of owning me now that I'm worth 700,000.

Is that supposed to be a lot of $$$ where you live?

I’m the VHS gay porn tape in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. I’m here by myself because I come in a greatly oversized box and I cost $79.95 at the adult book store. I’ve been played on fast forward to the same spots so many times I’m beginning to become warped. New kid on the scene Jeff Stryker stars in me.

I am the gasp resonating throughout the place when its owner reads an item in the gossip column of the evening newspaper—yes, the second newspaper of the day—reporting that MTV has fired Martha Quinn.

I'm the mail. Among catalogs and magazines, I contain a postcard from a friend vacationing in Italy and a handwritten letter from Mom.

It never occurs to my recipient that catalogs, magazines, and especially handwritten personal mail will be all but extinct in 25 years.

I'm TV Guide.

I remember you, R94! I remember the thrill of illicit pleasure I received when settling down with you on the weekends — just we two and my popcorn — reading your warnings about what Interpol would do to me if they ever found out a friend had made you for me. Those were the good old days.

I’m the baby blue toilet paper and Kleenex to match the blue sink, toilet and tub

I am the Pizza Hut box on the floor, containing scraps of the XL pizza the condo owner scarfed in tears last night, after being rejected by the blond twink in high-waisted acid-washed jeans at the local gay bar.

Turns out the property owner dodged a bug (er, bullet).

I'm the British telephone booth tin can, on the desk, from AAHS.

I’m the Wella Balsam shampoo and creme rinse sitting coyly in the shower rack, worrying that my lady’s crimping iron will dull the shine I will give her hair.

I am the loneliness, the intense loneliness, that makes me leave the condo and seek out conversation and company with other people, instead of finding community and comfort scrolling endlessly on a glowing screen at home until I pass out.

Because people in modern times never go out 😂

I'm the food processor on the kitchen counter.

I am the closet sheltering in my dark corner a very nice pair of disco shoes that belonged to my owner, now in his 30s and occasionally says he wishes they never closed Studio 54.

I’m the pasta salad in the fridge. I’m low fat and therefore healthy.

I'm the aerobics class for sexy singles that meets in the recreation room on the ground floor.

I’m your Aerobics teacher I’m a hot young curvy girl with a flat tummy and drawers full of leotards, tights and leg Warmers in every color. It doesn’t occur to me that the ability to turn heads and be young dewy pretty has a very short shelf life.Even though it is on the way out I’ll wear my off the shoulder Flashdance shirts for years. My LPs, 45s and cassette tapes are scattered all over the floor. I pick up extra money making mix tapes for other teachers. …. I have a carton of Marlboro lights 100s on my bureau and have one going at all times. …. I have to hurry and shower - it’s almost time for Ryan’s Hope and then Loving and the rest. I have a white wicker basket full of Soap Opera Digest. …. A few hours later it’s time for Oprah - Trudi Chase is on. I plug in my hot rollers and start my make up. I look at photos of Donna Mills so I can copy her Abby Ewing eyes. I pop open a brand new pair of Leggs Eggs panty hose and put on my Cocktail Waitress Uniform and enormous earrings and big hair and head out to my second job. I have to set up for Happy Hour. Mini quiches, oysters and chips and guacamole. I wear tennis shoes like Cybill Shepherd while I set up but switch to high heels when we open. The Liquor Laws haven’t changed yet - tonight is 88 cent Corona night. It is going to be a long night.

r20 Zima wasn't introduced until 1993. I know this because it was the alcohol I got to have for making the honor roll the whole year and I could invite one friend over while my parents were gone. I chose Stephen.

There have been a couple anachronisms in this thread....like Dolphin Shorts in 1986??

NO! Dolphins were strictly early-80s, where I lived (Los Angeles). They were OUT/no longer cool, by 1983-84.

I am the bikini briefs on the floor next to the water bed. All the cool swinging singles wear me, in a few years I will be passed over for much bigger boxer briefs.

I’m a copy of the brand new IRS code. What happened to all the tax brackets??

I'm the Froojenglace. Even I don't know how to spell me.

I'm ceramic swan towel holder on the bathroom counter.

Früsen Gladjé, r140. I'm their Pralines and Cream flavor, which Haagen-Dazs refuses to make in the US.

I'm the wood grained answering machine. My owner loves to leave a kitschy outgoing message. Nobody has the heart to tell him that they know he's just ripping off the Crazy Calls tape. Sometimes verbatim. Anyone with cable TV has seen the commercial. The worst part is he laughs and laughs before the beep.

I'm the monogrammed everything. The owner, Curtis Michael Underwood thinks it's hilarious that I spell out CUM

Were I Curtis, I'd be a bit upset that they got my initials wrong.

R145 Then you don’t know how most monograms work.

I'm the MAY MIXER!!!! Banner made on Bernard's dot matrix printer using Print Shop. Nobody talk to Bernard about it because he will literally talk to you for an hour about computers and he'll never once look you in the eye. Strange guy.

[quote] I'm their Pralines and Cream flavor, which Haagen-Dazs refuses to make in the US.

I wonder if they have an agreement with Baskin-Robbins not to sell it in the US.

I'm the Sony DiscMan and I sucked from day 1.

I’m the whole condo intercom/radio. I am in each room - the intercom part never works and the radio is tinny. The one in the kitchen isn’t grounded. Every few months you forget and touch the radio and refrigerator at the same time - sizzle sizzle YOWCH!!!!

R149, I bought a Discman in 1991 and I never had a problem. It lasted ten years of nearly daily use. It was not one you could go running with, or take to the gym, but I still had my Walkman for those uses.

I'm the science teacher in 7B. I'm planning a Halley's Comet viewing party. So far only Bernard and Ethel have shown up. Ethel loves to laugh about being around for its last visit and Bernard can't stop talking about his new calculator watch.

I'm the cathedral ceilings. What an absolute waste.

I'm the kitchen's "sunshine ceiling". Framed out of golden oak to match the horizontal band on the laminate cabinet doors, which was an upgrade over the white metal frame. A few decades later there's usually one fluorescent tube buzzing and flickering on its way out.

We're Bartles and James wine coolers.

Thank you for your support.

I'm the Soap Opera Digest on the coffee table, that focuses exclusively on Mary from Santa Barbara having been killed by a falling letter "C" on the roof of the Capwell Hotel.

I'm the popcorn ceiling you're going to hate one day.

Cathedral ceilings too. Yuck.

You can change paint, floors, windows, anything - but those are there to stay.

I’m the Laura Ashley show towels in the powder bath.

I'm the Caswell Massey soap bars. Don't use me! Use the Soft Soap in the ceramic pump dispenser

I'm the state of the art Macintosh Plus in the den/office.

Why would you have cathedral ceilings in a condo, though? I'm assuming condo means multi-storied buildings. Maybe the top floor would have a cathedral ceiling.

R162 Townhouse developments etc can also come as condos.

I'm the phone bill. That call to your friend across the country cost you dearly, even though you stayed up and waited till the off-peak hours, and then watched the clock the whole time.

I also include charges for equipment leased from the phone company -- such as the phone itself, the thick cable attaching it into the wall, and the ugly grey wall wart next to it.

On that same phone bill, I'm the outrageous charge for the X-rated 970-exchange number.

The owner of the condo and the phone knew better, but he was so drunk and SO horny when he saw the ad at 2 AM on a cable station.

I actually have cathedral ceilings (renter here). It doesn't have any beams. I hate it, though. Horrible for climate control. I also hate sleeping in an area where the ceiling is so high.

I'm the rattling ceiling fan. I bother the shit out of guests, but my owner can't go to sleep without me.

I'm the pair of cum stain-covered Madras shorts tossed in the corner of the bedroom floor.

We're the covenants you never read before you bought the place.

Don't worry, they'll take good care of Toto at the pound.

Heh heh heh . . .

I'm the garden atrium

I'm the "Mad About You" cassingle on top of the entertainment center in the living room that I play when I want to feel vivacious and Ann-Margret-y.

I'm the magazines fanned out on the coffee table. People, US, Vanity Fair, Time, Newsweek and U.S. News and World Report.

I'm Champlain Towers South, in the Miami suburb of Surfside. My seaside construction is 5-years-young. I'm proud to boast sweeping views of the Atlantic and property management so excellent that our HOA fees and maintenance nuisances are practically non-existent.

I'm the National Enquirer and the Star hidden in the drawer of the cabinet next to the coffee table.

The ubiquitous mirrored wall(s) really deserve another mention, even though OP cited them.

I'm R6's versatile cousin, the 300-watt halogen torchiere floor lamp / CD tower, filled with 100 compact discs purchased from Columbia House, standing in the corner of the living room.

I'm the poufy valances. My secret is blank newspaper. All you have to do is go by your local newspaper printer's and they'll give you 20 feet for free! Do not use regular newspaper. It bleeds thro. Almost immediately. You do not want read about The Challenger when you're soaking in your neach view.

I'm the scallop shell toilet seat. Really didn't spring for the bidet did you? You know that powder blue Cottenelle causes cancer right? Almost as bad as your actual Johnson and Johnson powder

On the shelf above that scallop shell toilet seat (you forgot to specify whether it was mauve or that vaguely shit-brown tan)...

I am a canister of Dippity-Do or a sqeeze dispenser of Dep. How else are you gonna get The Hair?

If you fancy yourself a bit of a European sophisticate, perhaps I am a metal tube of Tenax.

Obviously, there is a spray can of Final Net on the shelf with me to finish off the look.

I'm Sherri Rasmussen. I was shot to death in my Van Nuys condo in 1986 by my husband's psycho bitch ex-girlfriend, who was a cop. It took 23 years to solve my murder.

I'm the shag carpet in the dining and living rooms.

And I'm so glad you don't have any dogs or cats. Unlike the previous two owners.

I'm the comedy Weird Science playing on HBO four times a time on the 200-pound television set in the living room.

I'm the oversized Georgia O'Keeffe framed print hanging above the living room sofa. I was chosen because I go well with the Southwestern color palette of desert rose, sunset pink, and turquoise sea. However, on closer inspection, the ram's skull and calla lilies suggest more than what they actually are and make guests feel strangely aroused.

I'm the hanging baskets out front. We're gorgeous! How dare the HOA suggest otherwise

Hey guys! I'm coming back!

I’m recent issues of the Robb Report conspicuously placed on the sofa end table.

I'm the bonnet wearing goose with the country blue bow around my neck. Find me in thr bedroom, the bathroom, kitchen and hallway!

R187 ugh, yes, the canister set and matching quilted teapot and toaster cozies.

r177, what is a "neach"?

It's a near beach view. Neach view

I'm the Finesse shampoo and conditioner intended bathroom

I'll be the Hall & Oates albums

I'm the 80s-style Pantene shampoo in the shower, which was SO much better than the crap that passes for Pantene today.

I'm the Blondie's Greatest Hits CD. He likes to put me on when he gets dressed and pretend his Men's Wearhouse suite is Gucci and he is Richard Gere. No.

I'm the Merit cigarettes on the kitchen counter.

I’m the garage on the first level of the townhouse condo that’s been converted to another room.

But, you’d never know it looking at it from the outside, because most condo regulations stipulate that modifications can’t be made to exterior walls.

It's 4:30pm and I'm the evening newspaper waiting on your doorstep. You will actually read me to find out what's happening.

I'm the "Miami Vice" white suits and tacky Ocean Pacific neon crap hanging in the closet

I'm the dusty rose and lime green accent tiles in the bathroom.

I'm the Tina Turner wall clock

I’m the “enough Wicker!”

I am Mario Buatta. THE Prince of Chintz, designer to the stars (or at least the UES social X-rays). I am the nemesis of that silly Memphis crew with their Pop Art aesthetic (if you can use that word to describe cartoon furniture).

My Park Avenue designs are the look to which this condo aspires. Unfortunately, for budgetary reasons, the owners had to make do with mass-market wares ordered from the Laura Ashley catalog.

Hmmph!

Forget about the chintz, look at all the cavaliers R202.

Clearly my owners were inspired by the Reagan’s dog Rex.

I'm the second People Magazine featuring Mark Harmon as Sexiest Man Alive. The first one was embarrasingly cum spattered. I'll be in the same condition in 20 minutes. Along with the Sears catalog. And not even the underwear section

I'm Stephen King's It. Damn I'm heavy. Hard to bring into the jetted bath tub. Wait til you see my ending

I'm the $40 worth of the mousse, the gel, the fixative spray and the Redken styling putty on the marbelized bathroom countertop. We all know that the can of Aquanet under the sink is what's holding that shit up

I'm the 14th viewing of Top Gun. Can't wait to spend $129.00 on the VHS release!

I'm the satin sheets and comforter set. I looked so much more glamorous in the JC Penney's catalog. This wine color is more a spritzer

I'm the Phantom of the Opera poster. I was bought in London. There was a really big storm that night and the chandelier dropped at the second a big thunderclap did.

I'm the leg warmer that R135 left in the Mazda RX7 belonging to the dude in 11C. Don't ask how I ended up there. The whole story is tawdry and embarrassing to both, even R135, who generally has NO SHAME about these escapades.

I'm the Indian doctor. Dr Patel. I've never once cooked curry

I'm 1987, London, you haven't seen a storm yet.

I'm an issue of Newsweek. Inside me, there is an article touting a new potential "miracle" for AIDS on the horizon. There are several enthusiastic quotes from an NIH official, Anthony Fauci, about the new treatment, "AZT."

The condo's resident flipped past that article, hoping to find a photo of Bobby Ewing in the shower. "It was all a dream" -- what a twist!

I'm the guy watching MTV for 24 hours waiting for his video for True Blue to come on. Yes, it was lofi and just me lipsyncing in front of a mirror with a Super 8 even tho the rules stipulated you use a video camera. That shit will never catch on. It lacks the warmth

I'm the VHS copy of Top Gun on the VCR. The owner keeps rewinding the volleyball scene to rub one out. I'll need to be replaced soon.

I'm the Franklin Mint Nancy Reagan commemorative plate. Christ, she looks like a bobble headed meth head. That Kitty Kelly book confirms it

I'm the Jamz. The obvious rebellion to tiny shorts. My silhouette will live on for 40 years.

I'm the not even the vet can cure these skin problems and cat like personality of the Shar Peis. Our owners will move on to Chows, but finally settle on Goldendoodles.

I'm a rumpled white linen blazer and slacks on hangers in the closet.

On the floor below me are barely-worn espadrilles.

My owner was hopelessly besotted with James Spader in "Pretty in Pink," and Don Johnson in "Miami Vice" just sealed the deal.

Somehow, though, when he put us on, it was all wrong. He was a couple pounds too heavy, or something. What it really was was a lack of BDE, but he will never admit that to himself. Back to jeans.

Did we even *think* "BDE" in 1986?

I certainly never heard the term in the 80s, R220, but everyone has always known and respected it, whatever it is, by any name.

I'm the Laura Ashley Collection English Cottage bed set, complete with ruffled-edge comforter, pillow shams, and bed skirt. "Mother" has come to live with the couple and they wanted to make her feel at home in the city, so they've done up her room to look like a country inn.

I'm the 2nd bedroom. I'm The Sewing Room. Look at all of these floral rompers in various states! In 10 years? I'll be the Scrapbooking Room. In 10 years after that? I'M the Cricut room. And then im less than 10 years, I'll be the computer room! After the arthritis sets in, I'm all Qanon, all 24 hours. Chardonnay and xanax baby! It will be a relief when actual dementia takes hold.

I’m the BMW 325i coup and Jeep Cherokee 4x4 in the driveway. This young yuppie couple has arrived.

I’m the giant fan purchased from Pier 1 and put into service as a shade for the arch window.

I’m the sheets!

I’m the cool as fuck MR-2 in the parking garage.

R41 is depressing :(

It *is* 1986, r228.

I’m the Cher Blackglama poster, expensively framed and bolted to the wall to guard against theft. (Alex, I’m looking at YOU!)

After unsuccessfully hitting up ten furriers in one day, I finally managed to bribe one in New Jersey to part with it.

I love this thread.

Nothing to contribute as I was born one year later, but everything somehow sounds so recognisable.

I'm your mother. You know, if you wash up right after eating you won't have to pile the dirty dishes up in the sink like that.

I’m the pub-back family room furniture. The recliner reeks of Giorgio Beverly Hills perfume cause mom sits there to watch The Cosby Show and sip her Amaretto Sours. After a few, she ironically questions the room, why isn’t her family more like Colby’s.

I’m the hollow walls, small cheap windows and pink tile..Vegas style

I'm the ribbons on the ceramic Mardi Gras masks on the wall. We're actually quite creepy and still available on Bourbon Street

I'm the twice baked potatoes. Not worth the effort.

I'm the Water Pik!

I’m the avocado green Fondue Set sitting in a dusty box in the high cabinet over the refrigerator. I eye the beige Swan Toasty holding court on the turquoise Formica counter with equal parts jealousy and schadenfreude.., .

i read the title as "Let's be a condom in 1986" and I was about to respond "I am not used enough"

I'm the free poster from the video store. You didn't get here early enough and you're not an employee, so we suck. Miami Heat? Stick? Howling 2? We're not even good posters let alone movies

I forgot all about video stores giving away free posters when the movie in question was no longer a new release.

I'm the copy of The Art of the Deal that is being used as a coaster

I’m the leaking waterbed.

I am the mauve and grey mica “art deco’ style end tables

I'm the infomercials on the TV at 2:00 a.m. Snackmaster (Cathy Mitchell, hello), Bedazzler, Caruso Molecular Hairsetter, "Freedom Rock" (well, turn it up, man!).

I'm also the land line phone. You had to use me to order these products shown on the infomercials.

I'm the overstuffed pastel-hued sofa sleeper sectional, purchased from Levitz, complete with matching throw pillows.

I am the Benetton rugby shirt in the closet.

Bless you r245 for mentioning Queen of Fraus Cathy Mitchell and her delicious "Dump Dinners." The perfect thing to watch when you're still stoned out of your mind at 3 a.m.

I’m the beveled mirrors.

I'm Columbia House. Holy shit. This isn't worth a penny

We're the reasons you got this condo so cheap, but forgot to ask about first.

I'm the big ugly flower vase that was a new apartment housewarming gift. I'm ovalish, wider than I am tall, in some murky pink or pastel, or navy blue or a dark and dirty salmon, molded with bold swirls, glazed on the outside and soft bisque inside, with a big paper label underneath "Not Suitable To Hold Water." I'm sold as "Deco" but am not, not evenly vaguely.

"Oh, well you can put those silk flowers in it...or painted twigs!"

I'm the Bain de Soleil. The homeowner uses me down at the condo's community pool to achieve that St. Tropez tan.

I’m the ‘Biceps and buns’ calendar that hangs in the kitchen

I am the Traci Lords poster at the frat house with the caption, "I want to take you all on!"

I’m the skylight in the ceiling over the shower, otherwise known as an eventual and costly repair. But it sure is classy.

I’m the heavy Eastlake pieces that demand Ralph Lauren Billiard green or raspberry walls and ceilings.

Add dark walnut-stained oak floors and you have a cave.

I'm the Pazazz Mousse. Sure we mostly wash out of youe hair, but your marbelized countertop is fucked

I’m the chunky cream demilune table in the building hallway.

My legs are scratched.

I'm the 15 year old bottle of Karo Corn Syrup. What the fuck you gonna do? Make popcorn balls that the parents will just pitch on account of the potential razor blades? Trick or treat, nallers

I’m the galley kitchen cabinets. We’re deeper on top for a more uniform appearance and extra storage. Unfortunately, your face is pressed against a cabinet door when chopping vegetables.

I am the VHS copy of Playgirl Morning Workout, which is already starting to glitch and fray from overplaying.

I’m the brass accents.

I’m everywhere.

I’m the glitchy sliding closet door track.

We’re the Frusen Glädjé and yellowed dimmer knobs.

You hope the combo will make your trick think you’re a straight Republican yuppie.

I’m “The Preppy Handbook.”

I have been studied like the Dead Sea scrolls.

I’m the bright red electric wok.

R12, right on.

I’m the novelty mugs.

I’m the Princess Diana “ Invitation to a Royal Wedding” oversized commemorative paperback, kept lovingly pristine since 1981.

I'm the cheat meals eaten outside the condo, under the sunroom facades at Rax (although cheat meals are not a concept at this time).

R271 that commercial is straight from hell. Thanks for sharing!!

I’m the faux-plaster textured walls.

I’m the New Beach Crowd.

I’m conspicuously absent…

I’m oak.

I will start just appearing towards the end of the decade, until I take over your your cabinets,, your dining nook, your end tables, and your life.

I’m the Venetian blinds.

My grubby cord has a big knot in it.

I’m the opaque, orange Tupperware.

I am the "lighten and brighten" concept leading to the prevalence of R275, which caused so much '70s dark wood to be ripped out of condos in 1986.

Which looked equally dated in 1996, and actually less preferable to the '70s dark wood.

I’m the professionally framed, extra large art print from the Smithsonian Gift Shoppe.

I’m a dog-eared copy of “Dress for Success.”

I’m the bath towel color scheme.

I was AGONIZED over.

I’m the many “interiors” books.

I represent so many dissatisfactions…

I’m the “good” chopsticks, placed with great intentionality at each place setting before “event” dinner parties.

We’re the frosted glass blocks making up this sort of wall-barrier-thing.

I’m the set design of American Gigolo.

I see what you’re going for, but it’s just not happening, cara.

I’m a single, straight dude and think that the two large framed prints by Patrick Nagel I have hanging in the living room of my new condo are the balls.

I’m a young, yuppie gayling and have adorned my urban condo walls with Keith Haring prints.

I'm the copy of "Working Out" by Charles Hix. Many of my pages are suspiciously stuck together.

I’m the naked furniture (some assembly required) stacking wood cuboid forms.

Some apartments leave us bare holding tv, vcr, cable box. Some apartments feature us fully painted, stained, and finished. Some methy apartments feature what looks to be magic marker that ran out way too soon.

I’m the tube of sexy Elance bikini briefs by Jockey in the underwear drawer that was bought at Bamberger’s. I’m skimpier and sexier than the sensible Jockey Life Y-fronts usually worn, so I’m waiting for a specific date night.

I’m the knock-off Memphis vibe of the area around the desk.

I’m the vertical turntable that reduces wear on albums and diamond needles. Yes, I’m duct taped shut because of the asshole Kiki.

I'm a copy of The Silver Palate cookbook. I am painfully overrated, but if you don't have a copy of me, you are a NOBODY. I've was used three times, then shelved forever, because my recipes cost a fortune in ingredients, a ridiculous amount of time to prepare, yet even with all of that time and money, every dish comes out dull and disappointing.

I'm the Gravy Train dog food. Between me and the Moist n Meaty it's no wonder all of Shar Peis look, smell and act like garbage.

I’m the lancer’s bottle in the fridge door - more of a vinegar for salad dressing that never gets used. The bottle is comfortable in hand when you’re drunk. Prediction: you eill stick to iced whiskey, but hold the Lancer’s bottle. Lush.

Feed my 80s beast!

I’m the crème rinse in the shower.

I’m the Gourmet magazines kept neatly on a bookshelf.

I’m the Anacin.

I’m the record collection standing upright in the entertainment center in the living room. Selections include Peter Gabriel’s So, Paul Simon’s Graceland, Steve Winwood’s Back in the High Life, Anita Baker’s Rapture, Genesis’s Invisible Touch and Madonna’s True Blue. 1986 was clearly a high water mark for gay yuppies!

We're the hundreds of remainder books you bought for a dollar or two apiece at the Barnes & Noble discount store.

I’m the junk drawer of random cassettes (the nice ones are kept elsewhere.)

When you go to finally clean me out during a move in the mid 90s, you will discover mismatched, dusty tapes and plastic cases of Tony Orlando and Dawn, Barry Manilow (unauthorized compilation), Dylan Thomas reading A Child’s Christmas in Wales, Crystal Gayle, and something called Saxophone…for Lovers (the “for Lovers” will be in red, flowing script).

You will have no idea whose they are or how they got into your house.

I’m the Crocodile Dundee movie playing on the monolithic rear-projection TV that hogs up most of the condo’s living room.

I'm the giant oak console TV. I've been through two residents. I work and weigh as much a piano. So I'll be here until 1991

I'm the pickeled pine! Marvel at my versatility, but don't look at my matching light switch plates, I do show dirt.

I'm the bottle of green melon liquor used to make emerald cities (melon liquor, vodka, (two maraschinos).

I'm Pet Shop Boys "West End Girls" on CD!

I'm partially snorted lines of coke on the bathroom sink, still there after the last night's party.

R308 There was NEVER leftover coke when I was around.

I’m the erasable ink pens.

I'm that last wall covered in fake wood paneling. My days are numbered.

I'm the terrarium. I was put together 12 years ago and I AM THRIVING! Until a dark day in February when the new boyfriend declared me "hopelessly 70's and chucked me in the box for bottle deposits. Luckily the quiet girl in 7B recognized my greatness and I'm still going strong. Not like all of those stupid boyfriends

I’m the Pontiac Fiero in the driveway that has spent more time at the dealer for quality issues than on the road. Pontiac will drop the car when all the bugs have been fixed a few years later.

I’m the Buick Reatta, a two seater “sports car” with a typical Buick suspension akin to a seasick marshmallow that nobody bought.

I'm the coral and creme, mirrored, etergere, holding on Lladro, slightly askew so you don't see the chip. I got it in an estate sale for a ridiculously great price. Mother is jealous.

I'm the Guess Jeans. Palmetto Jeans are way more flattering, but they don't cost $59.99. Pair me with some white cowboy boots and a concho belt. Damn girl!

R316 I'm the multiple Swatch watches you'll pair with those Guess jeans. Five Swatches, or six, the only limits are how many you can afford on your babysitting wages and also fit on your forearm. Rock out to the Thompson Twins on your Sony Walkman while you unpack your abundance of Benetton sweaters in the double closet of your new 1986 condo!

I always hated wearing watches so the thrill of wearing multiple was lost on me.

R318 No worries, there was no "thrill" in it. It was just a racket, trying to create a trend that would also sell a ton more product. Can you believe they would do such a manipulative thing?! 😜🙄🤦🏻‍♂️🤷🏻‍♂️

This was the actual Swatch watch I owned. Got it for my 7th birthday and LOVED it.

I’m the earring tree on my bureau (I bought the tree at Contempo Casuals) The tree is packed with huge dangly earrings. On really hot days I pull my hair up into a scrunchie and wear my long l dangly earrings. I unlock my Volvo that has been sitting in the sun and get in. I start the ignition and put in my Richard Marx cassette and push in the cigarette lighter. I light my Marlboro Light 100 and start to back out of my spot. I shriek because when I turn my head to back out my dangly earrings have gotten so hot that they smack my bare neck like mini branding irons.

I'm a stuffed croissant.

I'm all the trendy new shampoos you keep in the walk-in shower, so your hair always matches your look and mood. Jhirmack, Finesse, Silkience, Nexxus, Paul Mitchell...you had 'em all and you looked MAHvelous, darling, every time you put on one of those boxy shoulder padded blazers and walked from your 86 condo to your fancy Chrysler LeBaron convertible waiting for you in the carport. Even with the top down, your hair didn't move one bit thanks to all the Vidal Sassoon Styling Fix you used to lacquer your style in place!

I'm the dark pubic hair tangled up in the beige carpet from the teenager who can't stop jerking off while watching Peter Cetera videos.

I'm the laminated cabinets.

R320, I had the exact same one. It's still at my parents and would be worth something if I hadn't gotten nail polish remover down the back of it and melted my arm hair to it

I’m HIV and half of y’all already have me in your bloodstream :-(

I’m Gregory’s long-time companion.

80s Swatch twins, R326! Mine is no longer around but I remember it used to get *filthy* from being worn so often. I can still remember the feeling of soft plastic on soft plastic of sliding that yellow tab up and down the band.

With my older siblings out of the house and just me left at home, my parents sold our house in 1986 and downsized to a new condo in Shermer, Illinois. Not knowing all the rules of my new high school, it didn't take me long to get in trouble and sent to detention. Made some cool new friends though. A brain. And an athlete. And a basket case. And a princess. And a criminal. ❤️

I'm the bottle of anacin that EVERYONE had in their medicine cabinet (and most of the time I had been there for years).

I'm the ugly fireplace that has a folding glass door screen and metal surround.

I'm Kate Bush's latest hit, "running up that hill", playing on MTV. I'm a great song but it seems I won't hit the top spot in the charts, again. Ah well...

I'm the cookie cake! Celebrate your day with brown and white frosting. Be dazzled by my chemical after and foretaste! Speaking of being dazzled, is that a BeDazzler in that Cathy gift bag? You can reuse the bag you know

I'm your young real estate agents upspeak? Everything spoken in me sounds interogatory? It's the first time you've run into me and it takes you awhile to understand that the phrase "Just take a look at this view" isn't a question?

I'm the copy of Interview Magazine! I contain edgy interviews with up-and-coming stars.

I’m the International Male catalog that shows up again in the mail featuring the royal blue colored French Officer’s coat on the cover. What type of gay would buy me, let alone, wear me in public?

R337, judging from the photos, the subject of the interview featured in R336.

I'm the Speedo that's worn at the pool.

R333, very clever, but Kate was off the radio by Christmas '85, and off the charts. I recall that very clearly as I was a huge fan, and still am. 😀

Also, how does this relate to the condo we are imagining?

I'm the red Sergio Valente bikini briefs you fish out of your underwear drawer because you're going out tonight and might possibly get laid. No tighty whities tonight!

Ahh yes the briefs that have mesh areas just outside the junk.

I'm Prince's "Pop Life," playing on your stereo as you're getting ready to go out. You sing along as you put on your white jeans and apply the L'oreal Studio hair gel. You're feeling SEXY tonight!

Your hair is perfect tonight! Time to hit the club!

I'm the jizz stains on the black carpets of Confetti apartments in Weho.

I'm "Crockett's Theme", gently wafting from the stereo.

That's the most obscure and accurate post of the thread, R334. Did you get your cookie cake from a store in the mall? That chemical taste was SO disappointing after hankering after them for over a year.

I'm two empty bottles of vodka and a hidden lesion.

I'm the "discovery" of the neo-proto-retro kick of turquoise shitters.

I am the VHS tape of that special time when you were dating a porn cameraman.

I'm RICE CAKES! Eat me for breakfast with 4 scrambled egg whites and a piece of Sizzlean on top of me! For lunch, go Italian with a piece of Slimlami and an iceberg leaf. Snack on 6 of me and for dinner...A Strawberry Slimfast!

I'm the can of hair mousse in the bathroom. I'm shite but people bought into my hype.

I'm the four stacks of Swanson Frozen Dinners in the freezer, now available in plastic trays instead of metal ones so they can be microwaved!

I'm pizza sticks. I'm just pizza crust but every suburban strip mall has a pizza chain selling me with various dips and the families with kids go NUTS for me.

I'm 19 and still closeted because of the stigma surrounding AIDS. I secretly dream of going to see a matinee screening of Top Gun and holding hands with a guy as we both reach for the popcorn in the seat we discreetly keep between us so people don't think we're homos.

I’m a dusty pile of VHS tapes next to a beat-up videorecorder.

I'm your coke dealer. I have a pager. I told you the codes. #11 means meet at the Minute Mart in 30 minutes. 86 means I'm done for the night and 9 is I'll be at the bar. Why do you keep doing 911? Do you have another guy? 86! To both of you

Anyone see me on Love Boat? Gee, it was fun to do.

I'm the Persian rug. I was bought for nearly the price of a Celica at one of the 5 Persian rug stores in a 5 block radius. Even at my ridiculous markup, I still don't understand how this town can support 5 stores. Does it have anything to do with that coke dealer, Ahmed? Oh God! Here comes that Shar Pei!

I'm the tape-recorder-answering-machine-device, which weighs about 10 lbs and sits next to my new push-button phone.

I remember very specifically, r340, that I bought the Kate Bush CD with "Running Up That Hill" in 1986. I don't remember where I first heard it, but I had to have it the minute I could get to a music store. I'm sure I kept it until at least the 1990s.

Kate Bush is topping the charts, "Top Gun" is the number 1 movie at the box office, we're in the middle of a cold war with Russia... I'm just waiting for Bobby Ewing to come out of the shower in my 1986 condo and tell me that past 35 years have been nothing but a dream.

That's fine, R361, but you bought that well after the song was released in the fall of 1985.

I wasn't paying attention to song releases, Twittina r363. I bought albums. Unfortunately, "Running Up That Hill" was the only song I liked on it. But I surely didn't throw it out at midnight on NYE.

Well all would be forgiven as a fellow Kate fan if you had written something like..

"I'm the copy of Running up that Hill, still playing in my condo after all these months. I wish it had stayed on the charts longer!".

I'm the rough trade hustler who hog tied r363/r365 in his condo in 1986, then took a giant shit in his mouth.

I'm the aborted fetus that the lady of the house is still ashamed of because she was impregnated by a one night stand who was a much better lover than her accountant husband who pays the bills.

Poor people's versions of this, a fluffed and flounced and frilled up version of the English Country House Look, courtesy of a blockbuster exhibit, The Treasure Houses of Britain at the National Gallery (Washington DC). Bad designers like Mario Buatta buttered their bread with Nancy Lancaster's 'buttah yellah" walls and all the grosgrain bows and ribbons and and godawful chintz that could be mustered for the rest of his natural life. The always forgot that the foundation of the rooms they sought to ape was the space between things and good brown furniture and splendid rooms with good scale and proportion; instead for the Americans it was all buttons and bows and soft furnishings, like a pyjama party at Betsy Bloomingdales with no hard edge for anyone to get hurt. Squeeze it into a condo with 7'8" ceilings? Not a problem at all, we'll just scale it all down to miniature preciousness. What to do with the wall-to-wall carpeting that came with the condo and covers the raw concrete floors? Leave it. And pile oriental rugs on top to cover the dog piss stains. And potpourri for that last thing too, "under every flounced fabric table skirt —it's not even really a table if you can believe it!— I keep a big mixing bowl filled with potpourri!"

I'm the Bose 901 speakers, walnut finish, on tulip stands. My owner couldn't really afford me. He put me on his Discover card and he'll be paying me off for years.

He threw a party and wouldn't shut up about me. He was so uptight about showing off his high-end hifi, while his friends were just trying to get high and relax. As "Don't You (Forget About Me)" from the "Pretty in Pink" soundtrack was spinning on his Bang & Olufsen turntable, he spotted a friend resting a beer on top of one of the speakers and shouted over the music, from across the room, "It's a speaker, not a coffee table! Don't put your drink there!"

"Have you people ever heard of coasters?"

Don't You Forget About Me was from the Breakfast Club, not Pretty In Pink

I'm the little bottle of Binaca mint mouth spray next to the keys on the table. I'll make sure you get laid tonight!

I'm Jeana Yeager. I helped pilot the first non-stop flight around the world! All people want to know is how did we shit and am I related to Chuck.

My guilty pleasure is relaxing and watching “Hour Magazine” with Gary Collins. I like it when wife Mary Ann Mobley stops by. Ted Shackleford is on today. He is going to make his favorite dip for Super Bowl.

I'm the wicker wastebasket in the bedroom that stinks of used condoms.

We're the incandescent bulbs giving a warm sunset glow to the place.

I'm 4" square tiles, white or pastel colored, with dark grout.

I'm the teen in the second bedroom getting his first pubes.

Plastic door moulding and hallway wet bar.

I'm the stiff industrial-grade carpeting the developer put in which you couldn't change because you were just renting the place.

I'm the proud 28 year-old owner.

36 years from now I'll be on a site called Datalounge reminiscing daily about the TV shows, movies and music of this era with other Eldergays

I'm your mom, hopelessly stuck in the 70's. Christ almighty Mom! Get with it. What is with the fucking macrame?