Wednesday, June 28, 2006

my mother, myself

I've been spending a lot of time with someone. Someone very special. Someone who got me an Ikea desk and antique coffee table for fifty buckaroos. The same someone who got me my new house..

Retails for $89.99, bitches.

Maybe you've guessed it by now. Huh? Huh? Its Craig!! More appropriately

I love you Craig. Le sigh.

My newfound inability to go ten minutes without obsessively checking the "free" or "furniture" lists for a small, nice, yet cheap, two seater couch-- which would go perfectly under our living room window-- has lead me to realize that yes, I am my mother.

I am my mother's inability to have guests over unless the place is nicely decorated. I am my mother's impatience with people who don't get things done NOW, when I ASK, and not SOMEDAY IN SOME UNKNOWN FUTURE SOMETIME FROM NOW. I am my mother's disdain for shabby mismatched furniture and haphazard arrangement. I need and want pretty shelving, happy bins and baskets, ambient lighting, and for god's sake, if the accent pillows don't actually go with the overall color scheme, get them the hell out of here!

However, all of the arranging, labeling, and organizing has been everywhere but my own room. Ah yes, the mess is incredible. The clothes are strewn and the crap is multiplying exponentially every 10 minutes or less.

And this is how I know that while I may be my mother, I am still my lazy-ass dirty old self.