Now I don’t know what “theme” you would have to have in your bathroom in order to make a denim tushie toilet seat go, but I am pitching an Iron-Chef-style show to HGTV based around it.
“Your secret ingredient is CONFUSING TOILET SEAT. Make it work.” Would watch.
I am shamelessly stealing this idea in an effort to serialize. I want to see more of these!
The idea is this: If a stranger (or Columbo) were to walk into your house, what would they be able to tell about you by just looking around?
One of us is vegan, one of us eats all of the things. Our cookbooks don’t touch.
One of us used to be a professional organizer. Oddly, not the one whose clothes look like this.
Mr. Perfect used to live alone. Mrs. Perfect has not been able to mount a successful case to take down the Periodic Table of Mixology from the kitchen wall. (It is luckily located behind the fridge.)
You guys. I live like a [fraternity] animal.
One of us used to be in the Army and has all his coins in a cute case. One of us IS in the Army, but hasn’t done enough cool stuff to warrant more than a tray of “neat tings.”
Neither of us are in charge. That title goes to the cats, especially the fat one who thinks he can fit in the tiny bed.
So what can YOU tell just by looking at your place?
There are only supposed to be seven deadly sins? Poppycat. Because I am thisclose to buying a $200 litter box. (It has a less PG term in this house.)
So what is THAT? It’s not commendable, surely, which makes it sin-ematic. It’s not really greed or envy…but it’s clearly stupid, because no cat needs to make turds in modern art, but…
It’s “where MODERN PETS DO THEIR BUSINESS.” Like a JOB. And it comes in all different colors and doesn’t make me want to die just looking at it.
Now, it does not mean that cleaning it out will be my job (I will do any chore but that) but… I could say it’s for the cats (selfless) but it’s really for me (super sin).
Ohh. Since it lives in the bathroom, it’s “vanity.” Got it.
Want love want.
“You are Here” maps, personalized to your town, by Matt Macgregor Glen.
There’s a sweet spot on the clock in every house; a second in the day when the light comes in the window right, or the sun peeks through the blinds, or the neon sign at the deli downstairs buzzes on. A time that’s the right time for that house.
In this room, it’s 9:30 in the morning. The sun beams in with squares of light for the cats to roll around in like they earned it, and it’s aglow and quiet and warm.
That moment is a day-off luxury, tucking itself annoyingly in the middle of the work day. But like my friend’s dad who has a special coffee mug he’ll only use on weekends, it’s something to look forward to.
And at the end of this week, all I want is my sweet spot Saturday morning.
Home Sweet Lobster.
He’s been in a dozen kitchens, this 10 cent treasure, and it’s not home ‘til he’s up. The closet project is done and there are no boxes left to undo…
Well, then. I’ll stay here.
The Christmas ornament I care about most, lives at my parents’ house. It’s wooden, a tiny girl with yarn pigtails, sitting on a swing. The swing works, so when I was little — way back in the nascent eight-oughts — it was cool.
In fact, all of my Christmas traditions live with that little wooden girl. Like Frank taking the Bro and me to the movies on Christmas Eve, to get us out of the house. We’d go have lunch somewhere exotic, like Wendy’s, and see whatever we wanted. That first annual movie, Home Alone, gets watched quote-along Rocky-Horror style, at least once a year.
Under the tree with the swinging girl, Santa leaves a present marked “Open Christmas Eve.” It’s always pajamas, so we’ll look presentable for pictures the next morning. That tradition is why I have a full wardrobe of matching jammies. Pink, red, purple, plaid, hearts, stripes, and from the more festive years, ones that match the Bro.
I don’t have any Christmas traditions of my own. I’ve never been in a place long enough to. Lots of years, I don’t even put up a tree — I either have to work every day but the 25th, or I’m going to the farm. It’s not missing out, really — it makes it a lot easier to judge those who leave the sucker up ‘til February.
Last Christmas, I was totally alone. I’d only been in Italy a week, and though it turned out pretty magical, I’m glad I don’t have to do it again. This year, I’m waiting for Ryan to come home to decorate the tree with me, decking my toes with red polish, and watching Home Alone on YouTube.
And maybe that counts as the start of a few traditions of my own…
Maybe because my initials swirl together to suggest “together” — ampersands.
A logogram, of Latin and more to come, an efficient ellipses.
A “wait for it”…together.
And per se and.
I haven’t spelled out “and” in handwriting since ‘94. It’s a special code. If you’re in, you’re in.
And I like how they look.
(I’ve been pinning a lot of them on the Pinterest. Are you there too?)
It’s like spying on history — a whole set of photos from the inside of Brooklyn apartments in 1978.
And if you want perspecitve on the span of your life, the change in humanity between then and now, find exactly this: artifacts of reality.
Wow. 1978 was so last century.
