The oversized, handmade dining table that my mother received as a wedding present was covered with shopping bags from various home furnishing and accessory stores, as well as the inevitable Home Depot bags. Finally fed up with half-finished house projects and all-but-bare surfaces, I decided it was time to dress up my condo a bit.
The oversized, handmade dining table that my mother received as a wedding present was covered with shopping bags from various home furnishing and accessory stores, as well as the inevitable Home Depot bags. Finally fed up with half-finished house projects and all-but-bare surfaces, I decided it was time to dress up my condo a bit.
I bought my condo during the deepest recess of the housing bust. The recently remodeled, two-story two bedroom was a complete steal, and I signed the paperwork with absolutely zero buyers’ remorse, certain that I was making one of the most financially sound decisions of my life. The condo was a bank-owned foreclosure, so even with sky-high HOA fees, I was still paying less to own than I would to rent an apartment half the size. Although the Gandy-area location was not my favorite, I was working in Pinellas County at the time and it made the most sense. Okay, arguably, moving to Pinellas would have made more sense, but I’m an 813 boy and couldn’t fathom the idea of crossing that literal or metaphorical bridge.
Having tapped out my liquid savings for the down-payment, I was able to make very few cosmetic changes right after the move. A little paint and some minor furniture purchases here and there were about the extent of my abilities.
A few short months after I bought my place, I was offered a much better job back on my side of the bay. From that point on, I cursed my Gandy locale every time I jumped on the Crosstown Expressway. Every day I would pass the beautiful new modern (and mostly vacant) condos in Channelside on my way to and from work. Every day I would think to myself, “If I lived here, I would be home now.” Suddenly my once spacious condo felt like a prison. I left closets doorless, walls half painted and light fixtures partially hung. For nearly a year I had viewed my home with the general malaise usually reserved for a trashy family member one can neither endure nor escape.
Within the past two weeks, I installed the light fixtures, painted the trim, reupholstered dining chairs and bought all new bedding. I even bought plants. So what brought on this newfound passion for the home I have so long neglected? What was the inspiration for this renaissance?
Why naturally, it’s a guy. What else?
Having taken an interest in a new suitor, I find myself desperately trying to shine the proverbial turd that is my home in attempt to convince…dare I say, dupe him into thinking that I have some semblance of pride, dignity and self-respect.
I have always envied those together people whose homes are always impeccable: a place for everything and everything in its place. I would love to be that person, to be a bit manic when it comes to my personal domicile. Sadly, I am not that person. I am the person who can never find the right screwdriver or a pen that works, who finally gets around to throwing out milk roughly three months after it expires, who only replaces light bulbs when only one in the whole house is still burning.
I would be naïve to think this change is permanent. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I can only hope to maintain the façade long enough to land the man, or at least scare him off with one of my less-easily-hidden personality flaws.
I bought my condo during the deepest recess of the housing bust. The recently remodeled, two-story two bedroom was a complete steal, and I signed the paperwork with absolutely zero buyers’ remorse, certain that I was making one of the most financially sound decisions of my life. The condo was a bank-owned foreclosure, so even with sky-high HOA fees, I was still paying less to own than I would to rent an apartment half the size. Although the Gandy-area location was not my favorite, I was working in Pinellas County at the time and it made the most sense. Okay, arguably, moving to Pinellas would have made more sense, but I’m an 813 boy and couldn’t fathom the idea of crossing that literal or metaphorical bridge.
Having tapped out my liquid savings for the down-payment, I was able to make very few cosmetic changes right after the move. A little paint and some minor furniture purchases here and there were about the extent of my abilities.
A few short months after I bought my place, I was offered a much better job back on my side of the bay. From that point on, I cursed my Gandy locale every time I jumped on the Crosstown Expressway. Every day I would pass the beautiful new modern (and mostly vacant) condos in Channelside on my way to and from work. Every day I would think to myself, “If I lived here, I would be home now.” Suddenly my once spacious condo felt like a prison. I left closets doorless, walls half painted and light fixtures partially hung. For nearly a year I had viewed my home with the general malaise usually reserved for a trashy family member one can neither endure nor escape.
Within the past two weeks, I installed the light fixtures, painted the trim, reupholstered dining chairs and bought all new bedding. I even bought plants. So what brought on this newfound passion for the home I have so long neglected? What was the inspiration for this renaissance?
Why naturally, it’s a guy. What else?
Having taken an interest in a new suitor, I find myself desperately trying to shine the proverbial turd that is my home in attempt to convince…dare I say, dupe him into thinking that I have some semblance of pride, dignity and self-respect.
I have always envied those together people whose homes are always impeccable: a place for everything and everything in its place. I would love to be that person, to be a bit manic when it comes to my personal domicile. Sadly, I am not that person. I am the person who can never find the right screwdriver or a pen that works, who finally gets around to throwing out milk roughly three months after it expires, who only replaces light bulbs when only one in the whole house is still burning.
I would be naïve to think this change is permanent. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I can only hope to maintain the façade long enough to land the man, or at least scare him off with one of my less-easily-hidden personality flaws.
