Recently my husband and I toured some model homes in one of the new Orange County developments. Not that we don’t love where we live, but sometimes you need to see all of your options to prove that you’re happy.
Also, I love to peek into those perfectly decorated, color-coordinated, pristine spaces, while trying to imagine some of my fictional families taking up residence. Which room would Alex pick? Would Rio really go for that silver framed puppy poster hanging on the far wall in the designated, upstairs, “teenage daughter” room?
In one house, we wandered into the great room (with optional stone fireplace), only to interrupt a large group of friends, lounging on the overstuffed sofas and chairs, doling out juice boxes to bored toddlers, and breastfeeding newborns, while extolling the virtues of plan 3 with the Tuscan elevation. Where they actors, hired for their ability to add a little “reality” to an otherwise artificial space? (They're doing this now, I read about it in the LA Times). Or have model homes become the new meet cute spot for the “play date” set?
But it was Residence B (total living area 4,073 square feet, with optional loft) that really left me gobsmacked. As after touring countless homes with their ubiquitous pink, teen dream rooms, it wasn’t until this particular one that I found a copy of “Faking 19,” placed on the nightstand, next to the lamp. And after jumping in glee, waving it around, and announcing to everyone browsing the second floor that I was the author, I put it back, careful to angle it in just the right way, while wondering if it was included because of the content, or, more likely, because the cover matched the color scheme.
Either way, it didn’t matter. Because seeing my book among all those carefully chosen, teenage artifacts, made it feel like home.
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