I was sitting here in my new kitchen thinking about what to write, going through all the possible topics in my mind; stuff like life changes, relationships, international towel day (yesterday), but found I couldn’t write because I was distracted. See, I moved into a house a week and a half ago described by some as a “clown explosion”. The first person who described it as such to me was my boyfriend, the home’s owner. The kitchen is bright orange with painted brown cabinets and faded country grey lino, for example. The living room was a dark teal, and still has grainy honey-coloured laminate in it. The carpet on the pre-fab stairs is full-on polypropylene…carpet shouldn’t even be made that cheap. Maybe this all wouldn’t bother me, except for two things: first, I’m an interior designer by trade, and help home owners update their living spaces. How can I live in this? Second, my lovely boyfriend is in fact a collector. Of lots of things. So he brings stuff home that he thinks is cool, but has no purpose but to take up space. I am an avid hater of collections.
Now you have to understand, I grew up with a mother who had 4 children and no space, and the woman reduced mercilessly. I grew up thinking purging meant to literally throw out things I like from the crawl space off my attic bedroom. Children are natural collectors. Once I got married and had my own space, I proceded to fill it with whatever I deemed necesary. Then my husband and I started moving every year; making hauling around my crap increasingly difficult. By the last move, also called the divorce, I got rid of so much stuff that I went through a little mourning period. After that though, it was refreshing. Having less stuff I didn’t use anyway meant there was less to move, less to clean, less to lose. I felt free! Now, it’s a feeling I value over having a lot of things.
Back to the present problem: Mr. Dreamy keeps a row of antique bottles he found in old cars on top of the kitchen cupboards. They’re making me mental. A couple still have dirt in them. Right next to them though, displayed proudly, is a Christmas card from his parents, the two birthday cards I got here, and the 5 cards I hid around the house for him the first time I visited. He texted me a picture of his surprised happy face each time he found one. He has family pictures on the fridge, and he’s letting me choose all the new house colours. Alright! I have a great guy whow ants to share his space with me. Maybe I can put up with some stupid bottles…but the orange will have to go…