This week I temporarily ruined my finger. As usual, it's no one's fault but my own. Greed and thriftyness took over, and I over-exerted a tendon while extricating a(nother) new purchase from the gleaming shelves of IKEA. In one gloomy moment it became apparent that my finger was more than just a little hurt, the pain of which momentarily caused me to contemplate upchucking right there in the middle of my beloved store. Thank goodness that passed quickly and was overtaken by pure anger. We've got a house to finish. I don't have time for crooked, bent-backwards fingers.
Although my recent trip to Swedish paradise ended in tragedy, my purpose was fulfilled. With the help of my mother and a sympathetic employee, the new mattress and bed were somehow loaded and strapped into the truck, and I managed the drive home one-handed, using my knees to steer (Don't try this at home, kids). Since then, I've been operating with the use of one fully functioning hand and a forearm, palm, and thumb, which gets you pretty far in the world - in case you were wondering. In lieu of a trip to the doctor, we fashioned a splint out of electrical tape - you know - the kind of miscellaneous item one has lying around in the midst of a house build. In fact today I was again (again, again) at Lowe's and checking out when the cashier sweetly asked about the state of my fingers, wrapped obnoxiously in electrical tape. "Oh, that?" I said with an exaggerated sigh and smug shrug, "eh, you know, I'm building a house" as if the injury was procured while single-handledly installing rebar into a foundation and not actually from frantically pulling a mattress off an IKEA shelf. The "I got it while building" explanation somehow makes me feel tough and legit in a place like Lowe's where most women likely come to peruse lighting and paint chips. I'm incredibly tough, is what I'm trying to say. At least, I'd like the world to think so.
The reality is, of course, a completely different story. We're not really building a house so much as completing what was started (and definitely not finished - more on that later) by someone else. While Jer still toils with the literal nuts and bolts of completion, I've moved on to icing this glorious cake. I am in 150% nesting mode. This means that the perfectly lovely items that have filled the old house for years seem to have suddenly lost their purpose. Pillows look flat, pictures seem dull, furniture appears ragged and insufficient. HOW, I ask, how can one possibly bring such useless items into a structure we've worked so hard to make comfortable? Unfortunately this translates into a re-imagination of the entire house and of my own personal style. Am I an industrial-rustic person? A vintage-modern person? Am I farmhouse-traditional? A week ago I shamefully spent one, entire, beautiful day driving between three home decorating stores, buying and then returning, and then re-buying a series of throw pillows for the living room. This is a true story. And while I'd love to be the person I aspire to (a selfless, crafty, homesteader) the reality is that I'm an instant gratification junkie with a real need to feel like things are completely tied together. Meaning: there's no half-assing home decorating with me. It's either all or it's nothing. And it's never nothing.
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On the other hand, this behavior is fairly standard, I think. Most of us tend to feather our nests when there's a big change or move. And in light of all of the unspeakable building drama, focusing on picture frames and towel colors has been a welcome change. A most welcome change.
Speaking of welcome changes, I've been stomping around the property in this get-up all evening:
Picture me in these leggings and boots, hoodie, woolen scarf, holding a glass of wine in the right hand, electrical tape wrapped around the bum finger of the left, throw pillow under one arm and a bucket of cow food under the other. It's not always pretty people, but it's my life, and you can't get away with this in the 'burbs. And if that's not beautiful, then I just don't know what is.