It’s crunch time.
It’s crunch time.
Waaaaay back in July, I gave you a glimpse of our home with Hooker House #1. Then I never showed you anything else.
We have less than three months left in our lease, and due to several less-than-ideal situations, April 30 cannot come soon enough. We will move to a place with a fenced-in yard, and zero skunk dens, and no one living/stomping/screaming above us.
But just because, here’s one angle of my bedroom. I opened the curtains for the picture, but you should know that I generally live in darkness – a Fortress of Solitude.
All of you over-achieving, perfectionistic control freaks out there, raise your hand.
I mean, I can’t be the only one, right?
I have a really hard time when I can’t do something perfectly, which is unfortunate because I can do basically nothing perfectly. And lately, I’ve been doing a lot of things, which means that I’ve been confronted with imperfection all over the place.
My spiritual life is not perfect. My diet is not perfect. My money management is not perfect. My exercise routine is not perfect. My sleep habits are not perfect. My relationships are not perfect. My abilities are not perfect. My heart – oh, my heart – is far, far, far from perfect.
Not a single one of my efforts is perfect. And I really hate it.
I have so much that I want to say about this, but I can’t even write about my imperfections perfectly. Gah. Gahhhhhhhhhh.
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This was my bed last night.
I stared at it, and wished that it would just fix itself, but it didn’t, so I just moved my computer and slid underneath it all and went to sleep.
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Now it’s the morning. All of the stuff is still here on top of me.
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On Sunday, I was on a walk, and I walked past a realtor hosting an open house. I wound up going in, just because I’m nosy and take any opportunity to snoop where I wouldn’t otherwise wouldn’t be able to.
I didn’t expect to fall in love with this house, but I did. Like, deep, soulful love. Like, I was mentally arranging my furniture. Like, I was imagining backyard parties and the perfect hutch for the dining room. Like, the combination of the hardwood floors and the interior brick walls and the incredible range in the kitchen was lethal to my Dave Ramsey-loving self, and all of a sudden, I was trying to figure out how to pull together $389,000 before nightfall.
Then I just walked back to the Hooker House.
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Starting tomorrow, I get to do something really cool. I get to fly to Sundance Film Festival and call it “my job.”
You know I’ll report back on any celeb-encounters.
Recently, I was at Target, and I saw a stainless steel toilet bowl brush.
The first thing that I thought was, “I want that one – it’s so nice and shiny.” Then, I thought, “It’s too expensive – I’ll just buy this plastic one for $2.99.” And I did.
See, stainless steel toilet bowl brushes are designed for home-owners, people who never move, people who do not have to think about spending $15 on something that in a few short months, they will just want to throw away – because who is actually going to lovingly pack up something designed to scrub feces?
I am an unrooted, unfettered, tumbleweed of a girl. I have never owned a home – at the rate I’m going, I may NEVER own a home – and in the past 11+ years, the longest that I’ve ever stayed in one domicile is TWO. ENTIRE. BLISSFUL. YEARS. in a studio in the Wallingford neighborhood in Seattle (in Washington, in the United States, in the world). It was a 1920s building, with crystal doorknobs and coved ceilings and hardwood floors. Shoot, I loved that place.
But prior to that, and ever since then, I have moved every 12 months or less.
My constant moving, nomadic lifestyle, and sporadic homelessness have led to the occasional identity crisis, the random revelation, and the frequent emotional breakdown to my mother.
But while I have a deep soul-ache for a sense of rootedness and home (oh mercy, do I ever), there are a lot of great things that come along with being a gypsy of a renter.
When the hot water heater breaks, someone else fixes it. When the window needs replacing, someone else does it. When the horrible neighbors raise their ugly voices, you just move. When your mom gets cancer, you just head to Colorado. When the housing market crashes, you just don’t even care. You never need to talk about the most boring terms imaginable like “HOA” or “APR” or “HUD” because when you ask yourself “WWJD,” you realize he would just wander the earth loving people*.
Some people think of renting as “throwing money away”; I call renting “exchanging money for freedom and flexibility.”
Maybe someday, I’ll find myself in a situation/season/city where buying a home would make sense – and in that event, I hope that the house has a breakfast nook and plenty of closet space and at least one interior brick wall. But for now, I rent.
And at least this way, I don’t find myself justifying $15 on a toilet bowl brush. Seriously, America.
*Not solid logic when it comes to renting vs. buying. But definitely a truth, in and of itself.
Something I Googled this morning:
Is kennel cough contagious to humans?
Because – bad news – Kodi has kennel cough. And also – bad news – it is.
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First, “The Pianist” came from Netflix. Then, “The Piano” came from Netflix.
What in the world. Why did I choose to watch these back-to-back? I’m so depressed. If you happen to know something happy, please share.
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I’m so bored of my running playlist (Roxette’s “It Must Have Been Love” is only SO inspiring – although, let’s be real, it’s pretty damn inspiring).
What are the best songs to run to? I’m thinking of utilizing this.
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Sometimes I miss Nashville so much, I can hardly breathe. The next day, it’s Seattle. Today, both are very much true.
But right now, in this moment, I choose to be present in this city, on this day, with these tasks, and these people.
I believe that the future holds good things.
But I also choose to acknowledge that the present holds good things.
It is a choice, you know.
I ordered this print from a charming little Etsy shop.
Truer words there have never been.
I’ve had a number of requests (okay, fine – just two – heyyyy, Greta and Julie!) for pictures of the Hooker House.
I’m one who likes to have things settled just so before a grand reveal. And because of my persnickety nature and tight budget, it’s going to take awhile before I’m ready to explode our new home onto the World Wide Web.
However, with some help last night from one Jonathan Dalby (who, as I informed him last night, was once called “unfortunately good looking” – congrats, Dalbs), the living room is finally looking pretty complete. Here’s a glimpse.
I know. A FIREPLACE. How picturesque is the Hooker House??
I mean, you know. For being a garden-level apartment and all.
As you learned in last Friday’s video, I now live with my sister Becca in the Hooker House. Get used to it – I have a feeling that Life on Hooker Street will become a popular subject on this blog.
Aside from time time spent under our parent’s roof, this is the first time that Becca and I have lived together. She is 3 1/2 years younger, half my weight* and twice my sarcasm.
Becca has a dog, and she’s pretty much obsessed with him. His name is Gabe, but “The Greebs” is the moniker that’s stuck. So obviously, I now live with the Greebs, too.
Are you curious about these two new roommates of mine? Here. I’ll show you.
And in case you forgot, here is me.
So, yes. This could be interesting. ACKNOWLEDGED.
But so far, it’s been fun.
I’m teaching Becca things like “you have to rinse your plastic soup container before you put it in the recycling bin.” And she’s teaching me things like “this isn’t Auschwitz.”
For all he sheds, and despite the fact that he ate one of my books, the Greebs is kind of becoming my best bud. On hot days, I walk him the half-mile to Sloan’s Lake where he can swim. And on the days when I work from home, he never leaves my side. I talk to him in my voice reserved for dogs (admit it: you have a “dog voice,” too), and when I grab his leash and say, “You wanna go?” he jumps in the air like a kangaroo.
In the midst of so much upheaval and transition in our family, I am thankful for a sister to share a home with. And despite our differences (which are many), there is a comfort in knowing that at the end of the day, I’m not alone.
Even if it means that my couch – and floor – and car – and clothes – are covered in dog hair.
*Not really. But basically.
I didn’t know that moving my stuff into storage would cause so many questions.
Oh, you and your questions!
It’s really not a big secret – here’s the deal. My lease is up at the end of March. I’ve loved this apartment – truly, more than any other physical space I’ve ever occupied. But parking is atrocious. It’s expensive. And given my bizarre neighbors, as well as a landlord who entered my apartment last week when I was out of town, turned on the oven, and left it on for the SIX DAYS until I returned, I don’t know. It just seemed like the right time to go.
I thought about finding another place right away, but then I remembered that April is going to be crazy. I’m driving 5 hours away for a dentist appointment. I’m going to Boston to see Christina. Julie’s getting married in Kansas City. And I’ll be in Nashville for the week before the half-marathon (which I will walk, not run – no shame). Why pay rent for a month that involves a lot of travel?
So, I moved my stuff into storage.
Totally annoying, I know. It means that I will have to move twice. That is the pits.
But then, I think of the money I will save. And because I do enjoy a small cushion of sweet, sweet cash (that, according to my track record, will probably be spent on some random emergency before I even see it), it all feels strangely worth it.
I’ll figure out the next step, the next place, the next home when I get back to Denver in May.
Now we are all on the same page. It happens to be blank. But at least we’re here together. [snuggle snuggle]
I am having a hard time feeling like The Real Me right now, since The Real Me thrives on routine and nesting and eating the exact same thing for breakfast every morning. But 2011 has offered no rest for the weary, and no predictability for your truly.
The past few months have been a rough go for The Real Me.
The Real Me likes walking 11 miles a night after work by herself. The Real Me likes having all of her clothes hanging neatly in the closet. The Real Me likes a balanced checkbook and a good night’s sleep. The Real Me likes home-cooked meals. The Real Me likes independence. The Real Me likes quiet moments and clear skin and a big glass of water. The Real Me likes to be home, wherever I have most recently dubbed it.
After weeks and weeks of travel, I am home today. I am home tomorrow.
And then on Saturday, I am moving all of my stuff out of my home and into a storage unit, and becoming homeless – again.
It’s only for a season, and there are a lot of very good and valid reasons that I’m doing this. It’s the right choice, and I have to remember that, like many of my seemingly manic decisions, I am, oddly enough, choosing it.
But The Real Me is just so damn tired, and hasn’t packed a thing, and will stay up all night tonight and tomorrow to pack my home away into boxes – boxes that I do not yet have. The Real Me will cry and swear before it’s all over. The Real Me will live uncomfortably, and pray that she doesn’t wither away in the midst of it all.