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.