Tonight I put the kids to bed and curled up with my iPad and cheesy Nicholas Sparks flick. Aside from having watched the kissing montages from The Notebook over and over again, I’m not a huge fan of his oeuvre.
Watching Safe Haven wasn’t so much a fulfillment of my heart’s desire (although my heart does kind of desire Josh Duhamel right now even though he is tainted by Fergie but I’m going to try not to think about that).
I know that lots of people desire a big house. A nice, big Victorian house.
I didn’t realize that so many people had a deep, abiding love for leaking roofs, single pane windows and no closet space to speak of but hey, to each his own.
To be fair, we only occupy less than half of the house, the other half is rented out. Once I was sitting on the porch when a couple (I’m going to generalize) hippies walked by and spat out, “It disgusting that only two people would live in a house this big.”
I’m not one to defend myself but I did reply (to myself) Eight people live here. 3500 square feet divided by eight people is less than 450 square feet per person. How big is your apartment?
But I digress.
Today I found myself daydreaming about a tiny house, like this little lovely.
I used to live in a tiny house. In fact, it was on top of the one I live in right now. For a time it was the perfect relationship solution. You live your life just the way you want to (and keep your stuff in the big house) and I’ll live my life the way I want to (and keep my stuff in the tiny house).
But then we kept breeding and it didn’t make any sense to live up on the aerie so I moved all of us downstairs and now rent out the top floor.
Yep. I used to live there. It used to be mine.
It looks bigger than it is, it’s only about 1000 square feet and you can only walk upright in about 600 feet of it.
After spending the night there, Emily mentioned that it feels so much bigger than it really is. She should know exactly how large it is because she redesigned it after the fire.
“Of course it feels big,” I said, “there’s no crap in there. Anywhere. No toys, no tchtochkies, no nothing. Just built-in furniture and sunlight.”
Feeling rather nostalgic for the past, I made a list of the pros and cons of living upstairs.
Life was easier back then. I didn’t have to compromise with Lonny. And he could say the same thing, he didn’t have to compromise with me or endure my endless digging through his stuff.
I think we had stumbled upon the recipe for marital bliss.
But it was marital bliss without the kids, who annoying as they can be, add a whole new dimension of bliss to my life, even though it can be fleeting at times.
Anyway, I don’t know where the fuck this is going. I’m just feeling tired of someone else’s stuff everywhere, and my stuff everywhere, and how long it takes to clean this place up, and watching guy films ALL THE TIME. I’m tired of noise, too. Really tired of it.
I just want quiet. I want to pad around in bare feet that don’t hurt and have my house stay tidy for more than five seconds.
I also wonder what I could be doing with all the time I spend trying to keep my house from getting swallowed up by the chaos that is Lonny and two kids.
Heck, what would I do with all the time I waste on this stupid blog? Maybe I could get a job and make some money and buy a little house all my own. Maybe.
In Boulder? It would have to be one hell of a job, especially for a marginally educated nut-job such as myself. Dare to dream. If you need me, I’ll be in my room watching Nicholas Sparks adaptations and feeling very dirty.
Time to cut the crap.