Recipe for a Pity Party:
1. We cruised by El Rancho the other day... saw our old place... nostalgia and heartache
2. Geoff is looking at property in Hawaii... can't say what this will lead to...
3. The Pottery Barn Holiday catalog, full of lovely nesting neatly ideas, arrived yesterday...
4. I can't find an X-acto knife
Okay. I am ready to put it out there. I am ready to confess. I am really, really, really tired of being a renter. And more: I want to unpack my Stuff. I want to settle down, organize, decorate, leave my mark, paint my walls. I want to be in a home that I call my own, and stick a nail in the wall. I want to know where the X-acto knife is, and where my big message board ended up. I want to alphabetize our books, just once. I want our address written in ink.
I want to decorate an adorable baby nursery, and 3 clever rooms for 3 bright boys, or 1 clever room for 3 boys that get along remarkably well. I want to have a compost pile, an irrigated, bunny gated vegetable garden, and a charming little chicken coop with 3 fat hens. I want the right kind of door knobs ( not hooks that catch and tear pockets,) and I want an end to popcorn ceilings and fluorescent lighting. I want to invite you to our house for a long weekend, or tea; there's time and room for either.
I am not neat or tidy, or particularly orderly, but I suspect that this could improve tremendously if we were not so often on the move. Every move is an upheaval, and a do-over. Every move means starting the system of setting up life all over again, and the process is time consuming, mind consuming. I want to give my messy, scattered self a chance at redemption; time in one place to be unpacked, moved in, settled, and somewhat certain that another move isn't 6 months away.
Please don't send me a bumper sticker like, "This is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life" or "Be Happy, You Whining Middle Class, Materialistic American." I need a few more days to wallow in self pity.