Sorry, voyeurs.

Instead, let’s talk about the things that I have inherited from her house in the move.

The most important thing is Kodi the 3-legged dog.  Yes, our little raisin-eyed tripod, the Toad, now lives with Becca and Greebs and me on Hooker Street.  My days of zero responsibility are now a thing of the past, as Becca and I are constantly shuffling dog duties (not to be confused with dog doodies – although, yes, sad to say that those are being shuffled, too).

She is adorable as always, though – and even though I’m now much more tethered to home, and even though she doesn’t really fit into my active lifestyle (she can walk about a quarter of a mile before she’s spent), it’s nice to have someone who’s always happy to see me.

We’ve also laid claim to some killer patio furniture.  Last week, I told my friend Kelli that it was made of cast iron.  “You mean wrought iron,” she stated more than asked.  I was like, “Yeah.”

Now, we don’t exactly live on a picturesque block.  We have a dirty weed yard, and some local dogs peed on my basil and mint plants until they were dead.  The next-door neighbor’s mutt killed a skunk in their front yard, and the carcass rotted in the hot sun for two weeks.  I’m not sure if mere patio furniture is going to, I don’t know, redeem the neighborhood – but it’s sure as hell going to try.

Come over.  I’ll mix you a ghetto cocktail.

Finally, all of the things that have hidden in Mom’s pantry?  For years?  And years?  Mine.

If you know me at all, you know that I cannot waste food.  I just can’t do it.  If food dies, I die.  It’s this deep, fundamental part of my soul.  You think I’m kidding – but I assure you, I kid thee not.  I’m the girl who packs a food box in her suitcase on long trips, just sick at the thought of leaving food behind to rot in the fridge – a waste of my money, a waste of someone’s labor, a waste of, I don’t know, a cow.

I will avenge your death, cow.

Anyway, I now have more canned goods, spices, and non-perishables than I know what to do with.  Apple butter?  Kidney beans?  Chicken stock?  Red chile marmalade?  Canned meat?  Jars of chutney?  Two gigantic canisters of Pam?  If you have ideas for how I can put this stuff to good use, do tell.

It should be here in a few weeks.

In a world where I trust that I will always have what I NEED, it’s a humbling luxury to – every now and then – get what I WANT.  I am a super lucky girl.

Here’s the thing: I wish that I could be content with just any couch.  But if there is one word to describe Annie Parsons, it is “particular” – just ask my poor parents who have watched me for 1 score and 7 years (often with much chagrin – sorry, Mom and Dad).  I am so persnickety, it’s appalling.

Because I don’t have a lot of money, one would think that I would be happy with whatever might get tossed my way – but nay, I say to thee.

NAY.

Because I don’t have a lot of money, that is ALL THE MORE REASON to invest my dollars wisely.  It might not make a lot of sense, I know, but here is my line of thinking: why spend $200 dollars on something heinous that will make me miserable and ashamed every time I lay my poor, unfortunate eyes on it when I could spend $1,000 on something that will make my heart burst with sprinkles?  I would rather pay more money once than less money what would wind up being multiple times.

The obvious trouble is that I usually do not have confetti-inducing funds just lying in a manila envelope under my mattress.  If I did, I sure wouldn’t be driving a 20-year old Honda Accord – but then again, that’s EXACTLY why I’m driving a 20-year old Honda Accord.  I could go out right now and buy a 1993 Saturn (no offense, if that’s you), but why would I do that when what I really want is keyless entry and seat warmers?  It’s worth waiting for.

Does this make sense to anyone but me?

In other words, I am still couchless.

And single, as it were.

There are probably some parallels there.

It’s called a PARSONS desk, for crying out loud – can you say meant? to? be? This is what Gina, Leigh, and I will be supporting the Emma community off of.  And I might occasionally drape myself across mine, just out of sheer obsession.

- – - – - – - -

If “the British” = “Julie” then call me Paul Revere.

It’s true.  JULIE IS COMING!

Yes, Julie of JAM.  When I get home from work tonight, there she’ll be.  And for a few days, all will be right in my world.

- – - – - – - -

I took my car for an oil change this morning.  The man at the counter asked, “Make and model?”

“Honda Accord,” I replied.

“Year?” he asked.

“1990.”

“Nineteen-ninety…?” he paused, prompting.

“1990.  Period”

“Ninety?  Really?  Well, okaaaaaaay.”

No one – not even mechanics – can believe that the Honda is still alive and kicking.

- – - – - – - -

I want to be in this so bad.

Now, let’s whiplash back to my quiet life.  All I’m asking is to find a charcoal grey, non-microfiber, cozy, not-too-huge, affordable, totally sexy sectional.  Craigslist is failing me at every turn.

When it comes to my home, I’m a big fan of changing things up every now and then – which probably comes no, not from a constant desire for growth and refinement, but from my deep, childhood love of “Full House.”

Think about it: the Tanners remodeled SO MANY TIMES.  The basement into Uncle Jesse’s recording studio.  The garage into Uncle Joey’s bedroom.  The attic into Jesse and Becky’s apartment.  And remember when Vicky and her interior designer mom redesigned Stephanie and Michelle’s room from primary to pastel colors and it made Danny and Vicky fight and break up?

Formative, I tell you.

There’s a lady coming to buy my little red couch tomorrow, which is awesome because that thing needs to go.  But what does that mean?  Yes: that my little flowered chair (of Hootenannie header fame) will be my only piece of furniture in the living room.

These are life’s challenges.

Never fear, Mary says. Just get this.

(My favorite line: “This piece of toast is made of plastic, not bread, so if you wake up and smell burning toast, you are probably just having a stroke.”)