In retrospect, every room I’ve crafted for myself has been a cottage. While my mother was having her 70’s moment of mylar paper and orange carpet, my room was yellow faux bamboo and quilts.

The dorm rooms and apartments that followed all included chintz, most memorably that Ralph Lauren black floral that I am sure I would still have in a plastic bin had it not been for the toenails of a beloved, albeit rambunctious pup. (Not Rosie. Rosie would never.)

The split-level that was Mr. Blandings’s, and then mine, whose entry hall was papered with faux stone and ivy, seemed happy to receive the iron bed and the braided rug and the wicker.

Most of the things I tend to gather are the stuff of other people’s second homes. I stopped short on a walk this week with Mrs. Griswald to study two wicker chairs left by the side of the road, “I think I might need these.” “Um. Well. You could…” And I caught the wisdom in her unsaid words and walked on.

Moving twice is hard enough; acquiring stuff to move is total folly.

I’ve deemed this the Connecticut Country House Look (even though none of these houses are in Connecticut.)

This look seeped under my skin watching Christmas in Connecticut, Holiday Inn, Bringing Up Baby and Philadelphia Story. Again and again.

Mostly white walls. A fair amount of floor showing. Some chintz. A lot of leg.

I’ve been known to show a lot of leg myself.

A mix of painted and brown wood with a little bit of sparkle. Not too much. Too much sparkle kills the WASP. Not that I am one, but I have quite a few buzzing around me.

That’s sort of what I’m thinking.