I buy my apartment gifts. I miss it when I’m away. It brings me lots of joy. It likes my dogs. I sleep with it. Sometimes we get into fights when I am trying to hang something in my ancient plaster walls and the nail won’t go in and I just HAVE to hang one last ugly plate with flowers on it on the wall or yet another embroidered floral wall hanging. And frankly, we’re pretty serious about each other.
My apartment and I are in a serious, committed relationship.
Since the Spring I went into overdrive and couldn’t stop buying every single matching item from the 70s that I could possibly squeeze into my apartment and finally realized that…it may just be completed. I may not have any more space for another set of canisters that have mushrooms
on them or that green ottoman that sits in the corner of my living room because I bought a recliner and a matching ottoman failing to realize that RECLINERS DO NOT NEED OTTOMANS PEOPLE.
And that’s the worst part about this relationship. We’re not even terribly happy anymore. Everything seems so…complete. And now, well, I’m getting bored with it. The spark is gone. The daydreaming about finding the perfect latchook rug to hang on my wall has ceased (mostly because I already found that rug, and let me tell you, it is really the cat’s meow.) I don’t scour etsy and eBay with search terms like:
- 1970s shower curtain
- Vintage marimekko sheets
- 70s alarm clock
because I just don’t feel it anymore. So instead I spend $13 on a 6 pack of Strongbow imported from the UK and escape to a friend’s house and I don’t tell it where I’m going or when I’ll be home. I come home drunk, we don’t speak as I trip over my gentlemen’s valet in the corner of the living room and swear that it was supposed to be more useful than it actually is.
If my apartment was a dude, we’d have been dating for 3 years and stopped having sexual relations about 4 months ago. I’d wear a tacky promise ring, and on Sunday mornings I would sit at the table and read Postsecret and relate too much to the secrets while he would sit eating scrambled eggs and mumble a request for me to refill his mug of Maxwell House coffee that I refuse to drink.
How could a real dude compete with this place? What if he tries to use my vintage juice glasses that are clearly much too small and adorable to be used? Or if he doesn’t realize that the only person that actually gets to sit on the giant leather chaise lounge is me (three small dogs included)? And last, but not least, what if said future-dude-that-probably-will-ask-me-to-step-on-him leaves his beer bottles in the sink, the sink that must always be empty so I can sleep at night? THIS IS WHY MY APARTMENT AND I ARE TOGETHER. We are comfortable, so we’ll stay together. I’ll probably try to reignite the passion with a room rearrangement and maybe an orange accent wall in the bedroom; maybe I’ll finally get a couch to replace the futon. Things will get better for a while…maybe it will work out. I mean, it has to, right? Because…