Whine, whine, whine.
If you’ve heard my silly sob of the money pit, then you know I have narrowly escaped drowning a few times in the past 6 months. If neighbours ask why the hell there are workmen, again, traipsing through our doors (I am known on the street as Murphy Brown. Eldon, Murphy’s workman is here in a million incarnations), I am close to snapping, “The sound of drilling turns me on.”
Instead, I just sigh and explain away as if I am before the Board of Noisy and Insufferable Neighbours committee.
It is not a colourful story but then again, when is it ever? Whenever someone starts yammering on to me at a party about their house woes, I excuse myself for the bar.
Decaying mortar has no dramatic arc*. There is no beginning, middle, or end. Just oceans of sob stories. My own little pity pool is plenty pathetic: sewage back-up, floods, break-in.
Lately I’ve been reading about strange home design concepts. Dreaming is universal and free, making me vulnerable to wild vacation ideas.
Would you live in a stranger’s apartment on your next holiday?
One Fine Stay is a website full of cool pads available for rent in London, New York, Los Angeles and Paris. Read here about the new unHotel.
Love the concept but not sure if I can give up the thrill of room service.
Is the bathroom the new living room? Read here about the fall of the bathroom wall.
Privacy is dead. Really. I hate this idea. All these open concepts puzzle me. I suspect they exist for clean freaks. Bathroom walls save relationships. We all need a little intrigue. Lingerie vs. nudity? You already know the answer.
Given my own house is a circus of repairs of late, it is hardly a surprise that I wanted to climb into my daughter’s new residence bed and stay there after we moved her in earlier this month. Not for some final snuggles with my firstborn, although I can’t wait for Thanksgiving in the Big Bed.
Going back to four walls and some rad posters was suddenly wildly appealing.
|My kid’s new pad|
Of course, they dragged me out of there and I’m back with the workers and dust. Making these is good therapy.
So is karaoke. Turn it up louder, Murphy.
No dramatic arc?* Writers find one anyway.