I left my apartment about an hour and a half early tonight, because I was abruptly reminded how much I hate the place. The physical space is not bad, so...you'll have to imagine what it is about the 2 BR+2 B I don't like. I'd like to, but I won't name names. But just now I'm doing it in my head right now. "IT'S BLANK BLANKYBLANK'S FAULT I HATE MY HOME! BLANK BLANKYBLAAAANK!!!"
After ample consideration this past week, here is a rough idea of my ideal home. Sums me up pretty well. As it should.
- Lots of light, lots of windows, lots of windowpanes.
- Older is better, but not so old I fear ghosts after dark.
- Hardwood floors.
- A sunny breakfast nook.
- Built-in shelves.
- A record player next to a comfy rug.
- Basil plants. Heck, a whole damn herb garden. (Rosemary, mint, thyme)
- Plush carpets you can sink your feet into.
- A lemon tree. I'll settle for a lime tree, it's not a deal-breaker.
- A big, private yard with lots of old, big trees. Favorites include weeping willows, ginkgos, dogwoods, cherry trees, elms, oaks.
- Creeping vines that hug the outside of the house. The ideal would be if they were spotted with flowers. But only spotted! I want to SEE the vines.
- Exposed Brick walls. One will do.
- A library! A room full of books! Books, books, books! If I had my way, there'd be two stories, with a rolling ladder and a circular staircase, just like Henry Higgins. (Who also had a record player. Oh, well, a Victrola, if you want to be picky, stickler.)
- Old fixtures a la Anthropologie. But if they were actually old, rather than faux old, that'd be better. No ghosty fixtures though. I don't want any spirits stuck in my doorknobs.
- Good china. Good china I use. Old china. See above.
- Flowers! Magenta flowers!
- Fireplaces. If that can't be arranged, a wood stove will do very nicely. Something to toast the toes that doesn't require batteries or a plug.
- Quilts. Quilts for every room. Handmade and flawed and warm.
- Nooks, nooks, and more nooks. Each painted a different color.
- Big closets. Places for little children to hide and play.
- Walls in every color. Deep burgundies, golds, bright blues, warm greens, happy oranges and reds.
It's amazing, because the things I seem care about in my current apartment search don't even make this list. Who gives a fuck if I have a dishwasher? Or a garbage disposal? I mean, I am actually worrying about ghosts, but that was just the one place, and she'd died, like, yesterday. I don't want to have to call Ghost Hunters. Although, I do want to be on SyFy...no, still don't want to have to call Ghost Hunters. I don't do well with the paranormal.
The important thing here is that my old apartment had none of these things. None. Not one. Except for the quilt I brought with me, and some shit rug. I want so much from the world, I want love and happiness and fulfillment and an agent and national health care, but I want a good home too. If there was ever an American Dream, I think that would be it. A home, a bit of earth, a place to want to be, a place that carries my name. When I get tired of fighting to find a role and/or a film to carry my moniker, I'll remind myself of the home I want just as badly, and maybe that will carry me through, until the day I come home.