I look around my home and see all that I want to change. Which is everything. Really. When I move from here, I think I'll have an open house. Just open up the doors and say, "Here, take it." There is not one stick of furniture I want to move with me. Nothing I own represents me or my taste. It was what I could afford at the time. And, in all this time, the only things I've "updated" were a new (and somewhat crap) sofa and a (very cheap) desk.
Some pieces came from my first apartment. I know. Now you must really feel my humiliation. Other pieces are from my co-habitation with Almost, and that was an ice age ago. My furniture is lost past its "use by" date. And it stinks.
If only I were indeed moving. Sadly, that's not on the agenda. Yet. Oh, I fantasize about it more than I do the Clooney. It's the first thing I'm going to do when I win life's lotto. Must-haves are parking (in my hood, that's a bonus) and my own washer and dryer. Because I prefer to have the option of doing laundry in the nude. I do. I think it's liberating to be able to wash *everything*. That's something you just can't get away with that at the laundromat. Then again, why would one want to? It's bad enough knowing that you are in proximity to the worn smalls of strangers while you are folding your clean clothes. And how the hell did I get on this tangent? Jeebus. I need some Purell.
A fresh coat of paint would help a great deal here. But that would entail moving furniture, laying drop cloths and a bunch of prep work. I just don't have it in me. Isn't that pathetic? But I don't. I'm just over this joint. I don't want to live at an intersection anymore...and that statement goes a lot further than my address. It's time to put it out there: I want a new home. A fabulous new home where I can safely park my car and won't have to worry about street cleaning days. Where I can wash *all* my clothes and not have to deal with the unmentionables of others. It's time for me to come home and feel at home again.