Home Sweet Home.

I put up some pictures today. This is significant for two reasons. Firstly, the wall space they are presently adorning was previously covered by crap I’ve had for years. Over a decade even. Old, ratty posters, stuff I made in art class in high school. Yeah. I’m 30 years old. I have a fairly well developed aesthetic sense, but this is not My Space. I rent, the walls are beige, it’s hard to care. And so the Eschers and the Oktoberfest poster from 1993 remained up. However, now I have put up four framed photos. Yes, the frames are cheap IKEA pine, and I need to paint them black, but it’s a start. The second significance is that the pictures I put up are mine. I took them. And they’re good. Two from Ireland, one from Victoria Park, one from a family picnic this summer. And once my brother’s house sells my current masterpieces will be returned to me: three photos I took at ruined abbeys in Ireland this spring. Rock and lichen and centuries. I think they’re beautiful, and they make me proud of myself. Until this year, and the purchase of my digital camera, I sucked at photography. I still mostly suck, but I’m learning. Before, I’d get an idea, a framed moment in my head, and I’d take a picture, and weeks or months later I’d get the film developed and… no. Not even close. But sometimes, now, I get it. And it’s always a thrill. I’ve had this camera less than a year and I’m already pondering an upgrade (not happening for a while).

Putting up pictures has also gotten me further pondering domesticity. I say further because it’s been on my mind on and off for a while, what with selling my brother’s house and people asking me if I’m going to have to move soon (with Chris and Teresa getting married), and seeing the real estate booklet on the coffee table the other day. When Cam said last spring that he wasn’t returning this past fall (Teresa moved in in June), I asked if I had to move, too. Chris’s reply was a fairly vehement “no”. We get along well, he gets free pet sitting and tech support from me, and he likes my money. All good. Fortunately, adding Teresa to that mix has been fine. I quite like her, and I think she likes me. At the candle party, someone asked if they’d be staying in this house. Teresa’s reply was, “for a little while, at least”. Chris has said on numbers of occasions that he never wants to leave this house. It’s just the right size/shape/configuration for him. However, times change. Soon there will be a wife’s tastes and needs to consider. (Well, there already is. A good part of the furnishings and decorations are hers, which has been an excellent improvement; the computer has been upgraded, and the kitchen appointments are coming along.) Teresa likes to entertain, and there’s not enough room to do that well here. (There wouldn’t be even if I didn’t live here.) However, she’s not working yet, and there’s a wedding and honeymoon to pay for, and so I’m sure my money remains welcome for now.

However, this won’t be forever. My parents used to bug me fairly frequently about buying a house. (Thanks to this past year’s adventures, I haven’t heard that recently, oh joy.) Didn’t matter that I didn’t want one and couldn’t afford it, paying rent was wasting money. I should do what everyone else in Waterloo was doing: buy a house and rent to students. Right, because that would be like living alone, but with my mortgage paid by other people. No way in hell. I am closer to thoughts of buying a house, but not there yet. I could afford it, barely, maybe. But nothing else. Kiss that idea of a new car in a year or two goodbye. And really? I like disposable income. And I don’t need oodles of space. And I need to live with people. I get weird otherwise. I am not naturally inclined to be very social, and so when I am living alone, I am not social. I get less and less social. Yes, there are certain draws. I could paint the walls any colours I like. I could decorate to my taste. I could have my own pets. And, if so desired, I could live with someone I choose.

So who would that be? That question tends to accompany the idea of moving from here, at least for me. Who could I live with now, where I am at an age where there is a strong element of choice and a much smaller element of necessity. Male or female? Male. I have lived with women, and I just prefer sharing domestic space with guys. I like their… guyness, I guess? No, I don’t enjoy urine on the bathroom floor and a crust of ancient food in the microwave, but that’s not all guys. Would it be someone I’m involved with? Possibly, though there’s stickiness there. I don’t think couples should move in together until they’ve been a couple at least a year. But what if we’re not a couple? Interesting. The… convenience of the sex would be nice, and there’s a nice level of familiarity between people who’ve had sex (even long after). Less pressure that way? More potential complications. What if you turn into a couple? What if it doesn’t work? What if you or he wants to start seeing other people? Can you bring the other people home? Whee… I would need some control over the lease/mortgage. I have lived in situations where I am essentially there at the whim of someone else, and… no. Not safe. It would have to be someone with income. Wealth not essential, but always welcome. 🙂 I am not supporting anyone. Sometimes I can barely support myself, and I am a generous person, I would try to do it, which would end up causing me no end of unneeded stress. It would have to be someone of approximately the same level of sloppiness/cleanliness as I am. If Andrew’s house taught me anything, it’s that squalor will make me insane. And angry. Someone who keeps his own schedule, mostly, and has his own friends, and needs a fair bit of space – same as me. I am not here to keep you entertained, but I’m happy to watch movies and eat popcorn at 2am while sharing a blanket on the couch sometimes. Someone without major food issues or politics. I couldn’t deal with the walking-on-eggshells stress of living with someone with an anaphylactic allergy, or who kept kosher, or was a militant vegan. Live and let live, people. (Well, kosher I could get used to. I understand how it works and have experienced working in a kosher kitchen. I’m sure I’d taint a few items but would clue in fairly quickly.) Someone who cooked, too, would be nice, and who shared my tastes in alcohol. Good wine is much better shared, and I would LOVE having someone to cook for regularly. Of course, things get ugly when someone steals your microbrews and leaves their crap in the fridge (or worse, doesn’t buy beer at all). And, of course, skills or doodads I don’t have are welcome. Someone with assorted power tools or kitchen appliances. Someone who can fix my computer when my abilities are exhausted. Someone who can cook Indian food, or make lattes. Mmm. When domestically happy, I tend to do a lot to make the person I’m with domestically happy, too. Get the right mix, and living with me is a wonderful thing. Get the wrong mix and… well, you get the townhouse on Albert Street before we all left.

So anyway, for the time being it’s just me down here and the fucking cat who thinks I should be feeding him supper at 2:30 in the afternoon rather than napping. Anyone want a cat? Will trade for attractive housemate… 🙂

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