[I will say in my defense that when my (RL) parents were together, my father decorated the apartment in peak mid-century modern-slash-Mod with a splash of the Asian knickknacks he'd brought back from his business trips; by the 70s, when I saw it, it was dated, but it was all expensive top-of-the-line stuff: tapered legs, stylish fashion colors, solid wood, everything. Watching later episodes of Mad Men I'd point at things on the set and say 'we HAD that shit' (including my father, who was basically Don Draper, down to the tightly bound alcoholism). And then when they separated, my mom and I eventually moved in with my grandmother, and her place was a hybrid of residual MCM and cocaine decor: chrome furniture with glass surfaces, furry black fold-out sofa, shag carpeting two inches thick, big sprays of stylized fake flowers, a full bar right there in the living room, etc etc. It left an impression of what a home ought to be, the potential that it has. Later when my mother bought furniture it was the most godawful trash: plaid burlap and printed plastic 'leather', rough wood furniture that looked like it was assembled by angry chimps, proto-IKEA fiberboard. Later she upscaled to generic gray waiting room decor; when my grandmother died I'm pretty sure my mom gave her stuff (which by then was highly desirable vintage furniture) to Goodwill. Is there a lesson here? Yes. Try to appreciate what you've got, and don't have tasteless fucking parents.]