So I schlepped it all home. A rented house allowed room for everything, but the dizzying array of themes stripped me of my ability to see reason and order. Coherence and unity were lost; it was visual cacophony. For months I wandered in and out of rooms filled with beloved furnishings and objects from my past love affairs with design themes. Confused and disoriented at first, I again turned to thrift shops and church sales to comfort me. I began a new collection of cheesy religious art. Neon-haloed statues of saints were placed atop wire-and-Formica coffee tables, right next to overstuffed purple velvet Windsor chairs, beneath peacock blue geometric Plexiglas swag lamps. And somehow (divine intervention perhaps?), it all seemed to work.

What I realized, finally, was that the picture-perfect "theme" room was never going to make me feel truly at home. The "theme" left no room for changing one's mind, or having fun. And if my home is a reflection of me, then the "theme" made me look one-dimensional and simple.

My friend's dad, after seeing a recent photo of her in my living room, said he thought she was in a Salvation Army store trying out a possible sofa purchase. She found glitter and sequins in the dustpan after sweeping my floor and wasn't a bit surprised. She's also taken to bursting out with the theme to "Sanford & Son" when walking through my front door. Others have said that my home looks like a tag sale in downtown Beirut. But I think that after a lifetime of using thrift shops to fulfill my "theme" decorating fantasies, perhaps practically living in one is the perfect theme for me.