Moving In, Moving On

Yesterday I got the keys to my new apartment, and promptly got severely nauseous. While there’s a stomach bug going around, I think it has more to do with the concept of permanency than any genuine illness.  I’ve always had a dislike of putting down ties; there’s no tragic backstory to explain my distaste toward commitment. I just don’t like pending obligations (or yard work).

While an apartment with a year-long lease barely seems to be commitment at all, for me, it’s pretty big. I’ve spent a lot of my life running around with my belongings in a cardboard box, and purchasing Real Furniture literally weighs me down. It’s exciting, sure, but it means that for a while: here I am.

My list of places, unabridged: Continue reading

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Is That You, Bed?: Looking for a New Bed and Why It Sends Me into Palpitations

Last July, all my “real” furniture burned in a house fire which claimed the entirety of my parents’ home.  They lost everything.  I lost scraps.  On the whole, I wince over everything of mine that was destroyed and move on… with the exception of my antique bed.

Oh, losing that bed hurt. It was at least one-hundred years old, and had been in the family that long.  Constructed of sturdy, massive oak, it was a canopy bed that matched a wardrobe like the one the children disappeared into in The Chronicles of Narnia. I had inherited it in my room when my mother decided she wanted to lighten up the furniture in her bedroom.  I didn’t want that bed in Florida – getting it up three flights of stairs would have been hilarious – but I had plans for that bed that were all shot to hell in the end because the bed was kindling for the fire which vaporized the house.

So while I have always designed my future apartment home in my head around that bed, now I have to start over. Woe is me, right?  It’s such a silly thing to fixate on but I can’t help it. Beds are important. You spend 8 hours of your life in them every day (sometimes…).  And I can’t decide what I want.  So here are the beds I’m considering:

  • The Laredo: “Hi.  Although I’m a sensible iron bed that you can lug up your stairs without inducing heart failure, I have a soft steampunk flair!  I’m not frou-frou and have a unisex industrial vibe, but I don’t really understand why you’re looking at me, because weren’t you into French Country just a few years ago?  Nevertheless, you are drawn to my sleek lines.  Forget the French, baby.  Sleep with me.”
  • Ashby Sleigh Bed: “They say I’m a rustic pine sleigh bed, but you know the truth, don’t you?  You’ve slept in a patch of poison ivy before. That shit is rustic.  Me?  I’m smooth to the touch and I won’t alienate Robert Downey Jr. when you finally succeed in breaking up his marriage. I can go either way, Whitney.  I know I’m crazy-expensive, but don’t you deserve something classic like me?”
  • Forest Canopy Bed: “I’M IN A FUCKING FOREST!!!! 8D 8D 8D”
  • Churchill Wing Bed: “I’m not going to waste your time. You can’t afford me.  You can’t even afford one-third of me.  Get your trailer park aspirations down to Belk’s, kid, because you’re smelling up the wrong side of town.  I may look like Kathleen Hepburn should lounge on me, but even she’s too low for my swaying cradle of exquisiteness.  Oh, I know, I’m neutral and a statement-piece. I’d eat your boyfriend, if you had one. Which you don’t, by the way, because you’re going to die alone.  But wouldn’t you like to die on me?  Wouldn’t I be an amazing death bed?  …did I mention you can’t afford me?”
  • Rangeley Bed: “I’m boring, but safe. If I were in a movie, James Marsden would play me, which is a shame, because in nearly every movie, you’d always choose James Marsden over the other guy, right?  Chicks, man. I don’t get it.  But anyway, you’ll probably buy me in a fit of panic because you can’t make up your mind and I’m inexpensive, but it’s cool – I’ll break in an inopportune moment. Revenge: it’s served cold.”