I want bookshelves. Everywhere. I want them in the living room, in the kitchen, in the bedroom. Would it be a bit much to have one in the bathroom? Which books would I put in there? Trashy romance novels? Perhaps no bookshelf in the bathroom. The steam from the bath would be horrible for the bindings.
I demand an orange kitchen. Rust orange, bright orange, tangerine orange. It doesn't matter. I need walls to match my KitchenAid. I need dishes to match my coffee pot. I need towels to match my spoons and spatulas. Years ago my mother tried to buy me a pink kitchen-future, but they wouldn't sell it. She settled for orange, and I've taken to it. I want white curtains tied back with autumn-orange ribbon.
I want mountains and trees. I don't need a horizon, and I don't need the ocean. I want snow, and I want summer. I want red and gold autumn leaves. In the spring I want neighbors to have gardens with tulips and yards full of dandelions.
There has to be room for Lucky, room for Bud, room for a llama or six, and room for Cocoa. Every home plan needs room for Cocoa. I want to be able to look out my kichen window and see my favorite equine munching on hay. I judge pastures by how well Cocoa would look in them. Too large, and Cocoa would look puny. Too small, and Cocoa wouldn't have the room he needs to push other ponies around. (And you know there would be other ponies.)
I want wood floors with braided rugs to keep my bare feet warm on winter nights. I want my bed with my cat curled up beside the pillow napping. I want a doghouse for Max, even if he'll be ancient by then.
And if he starts to smell bad, I'll give him a bath in my claw-foot bathtub.