Plus One

I've expanded my little family. That is, if one can label a Single as a family (which, if you include all my imaginary friends and pets, then it's..."All in the Family."). This time, I collected a real live breathing soul mate that actually breathes the same air that I breathe (and not the Sweetberry Unicorn-Shit-Don't-Stink air that the "imaginary" lot breathes). So, I share my space now.

The things I've had to do to adjust to the Soul Mate moving in:

• Make room in the closet for a pantless wandering mate who prefers the sleeveless sweater.


• Share my Archie Bunker chair and Linus blanket.


• Not only share my bed, but share my pillow. Soul Mate likes to be real close at night.

I still get to watch all my shows, fart, and make whatever I want for dinner.

Oh, sweet child o' mine:

Chronicling my mania for possessions

There is construction going on across the street from my condo. It's to be a hotel. While I can't understand why a hotel would go up on the Boulevard, I got to admit that I am a little tickle-toed with the prospect of having a hotel bar - one of my favorite kind of bars, frankly - in somersault distance to my front door. (That's after I would have cartwheeled across the boulevard to Kitty's.)

In the meantime, I suffer the earth-moving - and I do mean, earth-moving - effects of getting a new beloved. Every morning, as I lay in bed laboriously trying to get my day on (oh, the weight of the world! my eyelids are so heavy! I'll rest them for five more minutes...five more...five more...), I experience a shimmy and a shake. Literally. It's as if the Higher Being rolls over and instead of giving me (the usual) delicate kiss on the forehead and a backhand caress of my cheek (to tell me how soft my skin is, of course), thy holy roller (and Rocker) tells me to "Shake it like a chop in a frying pan, sistah."

Shimmy shimmy shake. (I'm sure there is an accompanying disco soundtrack reminding me to shake my groove thing. Or I hear the faint sounds of one underneath the dumptruck beat of 7 AM construction.)

Because, you see, my bed is moving. Or, in the larger context, THE BUILDING is moving.

The excavation next door is causing a series of tremors throughout my building and that has me a tad bit 'fraid that my lovely abode will turn to rubble soon. Structural engineers are on the case but in the meantime, I am documenting all my shit. Because I kind of like stuff and I have a lot of stuff. Cool stuff. Irreplaceable stuff. Or at least I like my stuff. And I am constantly buying stuff. And you know what I am going to do here? I am going to talk about the stuff I buy. I'll put it in the context of a story...a memory...a diatribe...an endorsement. (It's all of interest to you, I'm sure.)

Kind of "confessions of a shopaholic", if you will allow me the phrase, Pop Culture Vultures.

So, take this journey with me as I share my love for interior design, domestic comfort and craft, antiqueing, beauty goo, closet stuffing, and man-handling. And, for visual effect, the occassional 5 o'clock desk doodle. Home.emoH is shabby, eclectic homey-ness; imaginary dogs; and somersaulting (after I move the coffee table). Kind of like my psyche shooting the breeze with Bergdorf.

From underneath the rubble, there better be a bar. (Is all I'm sayin'.)