Perspective

I have this problem, or maybe it's a sickness. Hold on, I'm gonna google to see if there's an actual medical-like term for it...

Okay, that was fruitless, but google does think I should be in a home for the mentally ill. (Fuck off, google.)

I've mentioned this problem to friends before and have nearly always gotten the same response, which is, "I do that too!" Either I only spend my time with people equally as insane as myself (not completely implausible), or the more likely explanation is that we all want what we may never acquire.

That thing I do is that I place my belongings mentally into other people's homes. Bigger homes. Homes with more natural light, better storage, and taller ceilings. My books will go over along that wall, a desk in that corner, and that's where I'll hang my favorite piece of artwork we were gifted from Tessa. I re-decorate for your guys. I'll paint over your beige walls with white, then will probably paint your most prominent wall one nice statement color. That giant sectional looks so comfy but again, I'm not a fan of anything in the beige family so in my world it's black...maybe even red or a nice blue, depending on the size of the room.

This compulsion doesn't stem from me wanting to be you. Really, for the most part, I love my life and the people in it. I'm even more in love with Cory now than I was when we got married almost 13 years ago. My children are little geniuses who make me laugh and want to be a better person. Otto even used the word "fucking" hilariously in a sentence today and after telling him, "Maybe don't say that around anyone else," I felt a surge of pride.

Faith and I moved some furniture around last night, switching the spot that usually holds my reading chair with the dining table. It's what I do when things start to feel stale and I'm feeling a little insane. Our home may be small, but it doesn't mean I can't get creative with furniture placement.

That restlessness I've been feeling lately all started with lustful talks of building our dream home, as we like to do a few times a year. In that dream home there's a wide open first floor and a loft like area upstairs that holds our bedrooms. My laundry room is gigantic and it houses a family closet where everyone's clothes are stored. It's the only thing the Duggar's have ever shown me that I've taken a lesson from, that family closet. I want to wash, dry, fold, then store everyone's clothes in one single room.

My wise friend Missy has corrected me more than once when I start ranting about hating money. "You don't hate money. You hate the need for money, but you love money." (Sorry, Missy, I'm paraphrasing.) See? She's so wise, you guys, and I'd be lost without her.

I hate the need for money just as much as I hate my desire for more. God, do I want money, so much money. While visiting my platonic life partner a few months ago she asked me, "If you had unlimited money and could have any car you wanted, what would you have?"

I started my answer by saying, "Something modest," then that somehow ballooned grotesquely into me wanting a white Cadillac Escalade with gold rims. I still stand by this answer by the way, should Ellen happen to come across my blog and feel the need to surprise me with one.

Those dreams of house building have taken a bit of a turn into something more feasible, which is maybe trying to trick someone into giving us a home improvement loan. We live in a single wide trailer that has no storage (Not an exaggeration. It has NONE.) and shitty windows that let every freezing gust of wind or stifling hot breeze seep into our living spaces like a plague.

Here's the thing about that trailer though. It's paid for. A few years ago we got our tax return directly deposited into our account, hauled ass to the bank, slammed the money down on the table and screamed, "You don't own us any more!" At least that's how it went down in my head. It was super aggressive and I chanted like Linda Belcher on the way out.

This morning I was looking at the scene around me. Our living room was freshly painted and floors were replaced when we had a tragic accident involving our window unit last summer. The kitchen cabinets are awaiting their facelift, but I'd been holding out for new countertops around our sink. Then it dawned on me...why? Why am I waiting? My guess is that I have more of that martyr-dom mindset I've always disliked in my mom than I'd care to admit. If I take charge, lay down the drop cloths, and get elbow deep in some paint then what the hell will I complain about?

I spend so much time looking at Pinterest boards wishing I could magically wave a wand and live in this different home with different things. Bigger things that are new and shiny, not the same toaster that's missing its little knob you actually use to push the toast down into the slots, or the beige (remember...I despise beige) couch that's comfy but smells a little bit like cats no matter how much you febreeze it because it was a welcomed hand me down.

If you'll look to the right you'll see my boys. The one at the table is actually doing schoolwork as we feverishly try to finish the rest of his work for the year by the end of the week. The one on the couch? Yeah, I have no idea what he was doing. It was early, I hadn't showered yet, and the thoughts of what I needed to get done this week were still echoing through my head in their bitchiest mocking tone.

Down on the floor are Cory's shoes, almost perfectly placed as to be tripped over by me on my way to the bathroom early this morning. And on the couch to your left I'd like to direct your attention to his socks, abandoned there at something like 2:40am after he'd stumbled in, exhausted, after working a long shift at the library.

The little hearts along the ceiling will never be taken down because they remind me of Valentine's Day when the same man who trips me with his shoes cut them out, then helped me string them up so things would feel more cheery on a day when I needed the cheer.

My kitchen countertop is cluttered with food. It nearly always is, but good God there's food there, and that hasn't always been the case. And hey, I have yet to be completely infested with ants yet!

I complain so much, and to those who are nearly always at the top of my recent texts (hi, Audrey), I'm kinda sorry. Not completely sorry, just because sometimes ya gotta bitch, know what I mean? But kinda sorry just because I need to take these steps back more often. I have a home and can never be homeless. I have electricity and super fast wifi so I can spend my days torturing myself even further on Pinterest, or reading fanfiction on Tumblr, or maybe even writing a few sentences here and there.

Everything is about perspective anyway. And from that spot in my home this morning, things didn't look all that bad.