I’ve been so wishy washy about what to buy myself for Christmas (and my birthday).
I mean, after the post last year, and how nice it felt to actually give myself a real, wrapped up and everything present, I’ve automatically given myself presents-worthy status. However, some guilt has over-stepped that robotic act of self-love.
Firstly, I buy myself shit all the time. It just usually comes in a cup with a mermaid on it, or gets me that much closer to a shortened lifespan (it will be a race to the finish between lung, breast and skin cancer, I swear).
Secondly, well, I can spend $5 here and there and only feel a little guilty, but dropping a c-note on myself when it’s not for like, life-saving surgery? Seems a little too heavy to handle.
Thirdly, as Psychoghandi may have intimated when he said today “please wait while I write this down, before you change your mind1,” I tend to refocus my energies quite often.
So. It was the sewing machine. Then the wii. Then a yoga mat and gym membership. Then back to the wii. Then a ginourmous book of, like, every single publisher/magazine/trades journal/newsletter known to man and their publishing requirements, then the sewing machine.
Then I went to grab Zoë a book before bed tonight – see? there’s another thing that’s changed, already (damn you, Psychoghandi for your being right-ness) – and I saw this.
We collect them – books. I do, and she’s picked it up from me.
Mine are two shelves packed (plus, uh, about 20 more stashed somewhere else) with awesome. Organized by genre and then height.
Hers are put away however her gluten-free-cornflake-lovin’ little brain saw fit, along with some VHS movies (there’s another more-than-dozen of those somewhere else, too, thanks to a certain Lady who goes by the name of Mr).
Houston, Dallas, Tennesee, Richmond and Paris, we have a problem.
This system is whack. And I want pretty book shelves. I want clean, orderly, dust and ‘whatever might be living in this closet’-free books. I want to display proudly all of these loved ones currently locked up in a closet that, for all intents and purposes, was built at least 40 years ago purely to annoy the shit out of me2.
And so, in a perfect world, where I can both afford to do so and remove the stick out of my ass for long enough to pay for it, I’d buy myself this easy-breezy little bit of perfection.
And I’d cover all of the insides with damask-printed wallpaper. Because I’m artsy and stuff, in addition to being a book-collecting minimalist, who can’t write a single non-run-on sentence to save her life tonight.
That being said? Odds are I’ll, like, buy myself a nice mug.
- Which is when my inner voice said “Fuck you, Psychoghandi. I’m not contradictory. Well, maybe sometimes. But not that often. Okay, like, most of the time. Dammit, Psychoghandi, you talk to me just like my dad did. But not. I hate therapy. ↩
- seriously. Who builds a 14″ wide closet seven inches from another too-narrow closet, when they could have just joined the two together to create, like, a normal sized closet. ↩
