Be It Ever So Humble
Arguably the most wonderful thing to emerge from my stint at the Corrupt Pharmaceutical Lab is my friendship with Kris. Generous, snarky, hip, adventurous, gorgeous, and incredibly patient, he's been the dearest friend I've made in Florida. Kris and his SO, Marshall, have taken me to quirky restaurants and pubs, funky thrift and furniture stores, and just generally involved me in the artsy, alternative scene in the St. Pete/Tampa area.
This has been especially wonderful for me as I'd otherwise have invested all of my time into refining my Boo Radley impression when I wasn't working on my long-term goal of becoming that weird ferret lady who lives in the dark, shuttered apartment. (You know the one. Peers through the blinds every time you walk past and kids aren't allowed to trick-or-treat at her place, ever.)
Kris has burned CDs full of music that scandalize me into hysterical laughter. He's traded weirdo books with me (currently, he has my copy of The Eyre Affair, while I'm reading Hoochie Mama: The Other White Meat at his insistence.) He's even allowed himself to be sucked into FIREFLY after I chatted it up to him.
However. None of this will mean Jack Taco to Kris if I don't break down and finally move all the way into my apartment. After almost a year and a half, I still largely appear to be squatting in my own pad.
At first, this was due to financial reasons. There were some major car repairs to be done and just the general cost of moving to contend with when I first got to town. My sweet princess, Toly, was also diagnosed with insulinomas within about a week of the move. I pumped every penny I had into making her last few months comfortable and easy on her tired little body. She was the only ferret I had raised from an infant, and she was my last tiny flesh and blood tie to all the lives that I had lived since Texas in the late '90s. There wasn't even a question, a second needed to consider: the furniture fund was transferred over to her care. She died peacefully and painlessly after staying with me for a few more weeks so that I could have time to brace myself to say good-bye. I slept on the floor from November to March because I couldn't afford a bed, but you know what? I wouldn't have traded that time with my baby girl for all the mattresses and headboards in all the world.
Another reason I dragged on furnishing this place is because almost all of my belongings are still in storage in Oregon. I'll finally be going back there in a few months to sort, trash, then liberate what little is hopefully salvageable. I haven't wanted to invest too much in new crap until I know what of my old crap is still extant.
Very rarely admitted, but every bit as real to me, was my final reason to put off acquiring anything else. I honestly was afraid to trust that something wouldn't go horribly wrong with this move. That I wouldn't wind up on the road again, anchorless and damaged and stumbling toward the next place where I could try to make my stand to regain my bearings. On the one year anniversary of my move, I finally cleared out the cardboard boxes in the hall closet that I had carefully stored out of fear that at any moment I would have to repack and abandon my latest plans. With that act of tossing the boxes, I also finally let myself release the anxious breath that I had secretly been holding for so long. I could at last look around and wonder at what I might bring into my life again without the expectation that I would automatically lose it or have to leave it behind.
As such, besides a bed and a funky little table that I use for my nightstand, I've acquired a cafe table and two tall chairs. They're all curving wrought iron and stained wood, with gold brocade cushions on the chairs that match the gold accent wall in my living room. And this? Accounts for the entire furniture inventory in my apartment. (And, actually, all things considered, the accent wall really isn't so much of an accent as it is a forceful, stand-alone statement announcing Dude. Seriously. Get some bookcases or something. You make me sad, and I'm just a really big gold wall.)
Which is me going all the long way 'round to explain why Kris and Marshall have declared martial (Marshall?) law and have begun to forcibly furnish my place.
I called Kris to tell him about the new computer and the overall technology upgrade. Amazingly, I could actually hear him start to twitch when I answered, yes, in fact, the new monitor was on the floor, along with all of the other computer bits. Kris showed up shortly thereafter with a small, beautiful wood table stained almost exactly the same color as my cafe table. He announced that this is where the monitor goes so that I can at least pretend to have good posture while I sit on the piles of pillows.
Not wanting to be beaten to death with the claw hammer he had to hang that picture that's been sitting on the floor since I moved in, I promptly resituated the monitor on the table. This was done with the understanding that this arrangement is only temporary, that he and Marshall will be painting a clunky, funky, two-ton desk and moving that into my apartment soon, along with a number of other bits of furniture so that Marshall can justify redecorating his place at last.
So, there you go. Interior design by Exasperated Queens. Go on. Admit that you're jealous. There's no shame in it.
This has been especially wonderful for me as I'd otherwise have invested all of my time into refining my Boo Radley impression when I wasn't working on my long-term goal of becoming that weird ferret lady who lives in the dark, shuttered apartment. (You know the one. Peers through the blinds every time you walk past and kids aren't allowed to trick-or-treat at her place, ever.)
Kris has burned CDs full of music that scandalize me into hysterical laughter. He's traded weirdo books with me (currently, he has my copy of The Eyre Affair, while I'm reading Hoochie Mama: The Other White Meat at his insistence.) He's even allowed himself to be sucked into FIREFLY after I chatted it up to him.
However. None of this will mean Jack Taco to Kris if I don't break down and finally move all the way into my apartment. After almost a year and a half, I still largely appear to be squatting in my own pad.
At first, this was due to financial reasons. There were some major car repairs to be done and just the general cost of moving to contend with when I first got to town. My sweet princess, Toly, was also diagnosed with insulinomas within about a week of the move. I pumped every penny I had into making her last few months comfortable and easy on her tired little body. She was the only ferret I had raised from an infant, and she was my last tiny flesh and blood tie to all the lives that I had lived since Texas in the late '90s. There wasn't even a question, a second needed to consider: the furniture fund was transferred over to her care. She died peacefully and painlessly after staying with me for a few more weeks so that I could have time to brace myself to say good-bye. I slept on the floor from November to March because I couldn't afford a bed, but you know what? I wouldn't have traded that time with my baby girl for all the mattresses and headboards in all the world.
Another reason I dragged on furnishing this place is because almost all of my belongings are still in storage in Oregon. I'll finally be going back there in a few months to sort, trash, then liberate what little is hopefully salvageable. I haven't wanted to invest too much in new crap until I know what of my old crap is still extant.
Very rarely admitted, but every bit as real to me, was my final reason to put off acquiring anything else. I honestly was afraid to trust that something wouldn't go horribly wrong with this move. That I wouldn't wind up on the road again, anchorless and damaged and stumbling toward the next place where I could try to make my stand to regain my bearings. On the one year anniversary of my move, I finally cleared out the cardboard boxes in the hall closet that I had carefully stored out of fear that at any moment I would have to repack and abandon my latest plans. With that act of tossing the boxes, I also finally let myself release the anxious breath that I had secretly been holding for so long. I could at last look around and wonder at what I might bring into my life again without the expectation that I would automatically lose it or have to leave it behind.
As such, besides a bed and a funky little table that I use for my nightstand, I've acquired a cafe table and two tall chairs. They're all curving wrought iron and stained wood, with gold brocade cushions on the chairs that match the gold accent wall in my living room. And this? Accounts for the entire furniture inventory in my apartment. (And, actually, all things considered, the accent wall really isn't so much of an accent as it is a forceful, stand-alone statement announcing Dude. Seriously. Get some bookcases or something. You make me sad, and I'm just a really big gold wall.)
Which is me going all the long way 'round to explain why Kris and Marshall have declared martial (Marshall?) law and have begun to forcibly furnish my place.
I called Kris to tell him about the new computer and the overall technology upgrade. Amazingly, I could actually hear him start to twitch when I answered, yes, in fact, the new monitor was on the floor, along with all of the other computer bits. Kris showed up shortly thereafter with a small, beautiful wood table stained almost exactly the same color as my cafe table. He announced that this is where the monitor goes so that I can at least pretend to have good posture while I sit on the piles of pillows.
Not wanting to be beaten to death with the claw hammer he had to hang that picture that's been sitting on the floor since I moved in, I promptly resituated the monitor on the table. This was done with the understanding that this arrangement is only temporary, that he and Marshall will be painting a clunky, funky, two-ton desk and moving that into my apartment soon, along with a number of other bits of furniture so that Marshall can justify redecorating his place at last.
So, there you go. Interior design by Exasperated Queens. Go on. Admit that you're jealous. There's no shame in it.