Today’s post is spurred from a writing prompt from Lorna at Gin & Lemonade.
I am a pre plan shopper.
It is a blessing and a curse.
However I usually will find that the box of chewable Disprin, handbag sized sunscreen pouch or impulse purchase of cute wet wipes will prove handy. My expenditure will indeed be vindicated.
I will also find a dusty pile of pen tops, half packs of chewing gum and dog eared post-it pack at the bottom of the same exhausted bag shaped dropping of leather.
Occasionally I will ponder on the dainty bag holding person who I fixed with my selection of mini highlighters as they run unburdened (and unprepared) into the blue.
I am not bitter. We are different beasts.
If I didn’t bring the handbag full of junk, without fail, it would be missed.
Does anyone have a mint? ME! ME! I would knock you over trying to find it.
I am a fixer.
It is partly choice and partly how I came out.
One time on a holiday with three female friends, when we pooled our what-if medical supplies, we were almost embarrassed by the drug haul worthy of having us imprisoned that stood before us.
We were also secretly proud.
I mean, where would we get sudocreme in Prague should a chafing crisis arise?
I am a fixer. My friends are fixers. We found each other and together we are superheroes fighting the crime of being unprepared.
With that knowledge, you can be assured that when I knew we were house building I had started to stockpile the house ‘needs’ like a fearful anti- Brexiteer gathering water purifier.
(Too early to make that comparison? Maybe. I just read an article on it so it’s in my mind).
Our home- our chance to build the dream house.
I bought clocks. Towels. Cutlery. Frames.
Ikea was an adventure. A very annoying, not to be repeated one where everything you buy creates another job.
I am a fixer. I am not a builder.
I hated tile shopping. So dull.
Fancy lights- shall we be different? We were.
Forays into furniture shops were withstood and finished. (I had to choose adjectives here outside of fun or fulfilling because that would be telling massive lies. I do not love this type of shopping.
Paint shopping- I thought I did an amazing job but it turns out we have thirty shades of yellow.
I like it.
I like yellow.
The dream is a constant work in progress but there is definitely a few moments when everything (mostly) looked a little bit lovely.
And then Mr. Time arrives with his invisible slow burn. Children come. To be fair, I was warned that children are the ultimate destroyers of all things in a house, but ours have been really good at not doing this to catastrophic levels. However, I must chalk up a few murals in pencil, a more than slightly noticeable rip in wallpaper (it fell off Mammy) and yoghurt having a life of its own.
Yoghurt should come with warnings.
Mud might stick but yoghurt impregnates.
The heel of the reel is, the dream look will become more shabby than chic.
Paint needs repainting. Quickly.
Toilet seats break.
The weather attacks your home.
Clocks need new batteries.
Fancy light fittings require ‘fancy and hard to findy’ light bulbs .
(I meant to say ‘findy’. Neologisms are fun. I will also mean ‘hairytale’ which is yet to appear).
Which begs the question- what is a dream house?
If you can choose your own dwelling, is the choice easy?
If we are allowed start afresh, would we make the same mistakes?
Can you have your dream house and eat it too?
Considering we were blessed enough to make choices, build our own, decorate as we please?
If that is the case, I live in my dream house.
What I actually want is a magic house. Self- cleaning! Where deterioration is a dystopian hairytale on the telly and not part of my prettily designed wallpaper. Where there are no sellotape marks where paint should be. Where decluttering is a pleasant and calm experience and not a Marie Kondo fuelled nightmare. Where dust is a vanquished beast.
(My soy sauce does not bring me joy at ten am on a Monday morning but it gave me a momentary sense of gustatory delight last night on a stir fry. Does it stay or go? Ask Kondo).
My dream house has self-gardening gardens.
My fingers are decidedly pink. Not a tinge of moss or emerald to be seen.
My dream house is a magic house.
My actual house is my home.
Home is the feeling of security, solidity and belonging.
I have home.
Therefore I have the dream?
I think therefore I am and all that Descartes logic?
Maybe René was onto something.
Barbie never fully fitted into her dream house anyway.
Yet she always looked ecstatically happy.
Featured image is a drawing of family created by Gigi. No house because family means people to that little girl and happiness means rainbow clothes on a sunny day.