Since May 2005, I have been living with the Boy in what may or may not be Kevin Pietersen’s old bachelor pad. The place was chosen out of consideration for me, a central location (i.e.; high rent, small space) so that no matter what job I found, public transportation would be easy. The studio was modern, and bright, and despite one peeping tom and a tomato plant snatcher, it served our purposes well.
But now that we both work on the other side of town, and frankly, living in such close quarters has become detrimental to our relationship, we have finally, finally found a new place.
Moving has begun, and while it is still stressful and I still want to pull out my hair and his, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. And the light looks like this:
My new garden of Eden.
The bedroom, equipped with defunct fireplace and wardrobe (Frenchman sold separately)
The fireplace in the second bedroom, also known as the guest bedroom, the library, the office and the place Stephane will sleep when Lauren's mad at him.
The stairs that sold me on the house.
Once I get my decorating groove on, I'll show more, but an empty room is an empty room.
Moving has made me nostalgic for all the houses I've called home in my 25 years on this planet.
House # 1 (well, not really number one, but the first I can remember). It was in Los Osos, California. This is pre my little sister, when I had the full attention of my parents. The house was on the sand dunes, and I had a big bedroom with a balcony. This house was very brown and filled with bugs. Hence it's nickname, The Bug House.
House # 2 San Louis Obispo, CA. A yellow ranch-style. It is here that acquired my first cat Chili. There was an orange tree that held a bee's nest. A big dirt hill with a cute boy my age at the top. I was four.
House # 3 Hollywood; CA. This apartment saw the birth of my sister and the end of my parents’ marriage. This is the house that I remember my mother teaching me how to drink water out of my cupped little hands when brushing my teeth. And where my French grandfather became a god in my eyes by pulling penny after penny from behind my ears. An old couple lived next to us, and built me a wooden swing in the garage. The wood gave my thighs splinters, but I swung on it anyways.
House # 4 Winnetka, IL A small grey townhouse on a busy street. Our neighbours were all retired, and would give my sister and I glass bottles of coke and saltines whenever we stopped by. This was my first home without my dad. This house saw the babysitter from hell. It saw the first time I remember making my mother cry when I told her I wanted her home more often. It saw an amazing bond form between two young girls, a single working mother and a cat living on their own. This house had the best backyard ever, with a trench like in wartime and birch trees whose paper would call out to be peeled. This house saw my imagination run wild.
House # 5 Still Winnetka This house is probably the one I think of first when I think of the idea of home. This house saw the death of 4 cats. The house saw friendships made and broken. With this house I had a new father and brother, albeit briefly. This house saw my mom finally meet mr. right. This house saw me drunk, saw me get caught smoking pot in my bedroom alone by my mother. This house saw me almost lose my virginity at age 14 by my first boyfriend. This house saw me to the prom. This house saw two girls and a mom turn into three women. Three bestfriends.
House #6 5th arrondissement, Paris. This studio saw me reap all the nocturnal benefits of being a bartender
House #7 Ithaca NY above a tattoo parlour. This house saw me and my best friend through senior year of college. It saw depression, it saw bisexuality, it saw terrible boyfriends, and it saw the best wine and cheese party this side of the catskills.
House #8 13th arrondissement, Paris. This house was by far the physically coolest house. A converted meatpacker called les Frigos. This house didn't see enough of me. It did see my friend's giant newfoundland Yogi eat through half of my clothes.
House #9 14th arrondissement, Paris. This house saw me drunk more times than I want to admit. Still inhabited by one of my closest friends in Paris, this house is bright and colourful. This house saw me try to make breakfast and fail too often. I still miss this house.
If these walls could talk, right?
My internet access will be scarce while moving is still in progress - so if you don't hear from me in awhile it is not because I'm trapped under a bunch of moving boxes. I just don't have the internet hooked up yet.