Mi casa

     What's that I see o'er yonder? A half-year's worth of weeds, that's what. A day's worth of grumbling complaints. It's bad, isn't it? Can you enlarge this image to see for yourselves? Do you see the difference in length between my yard and the weed yard?

     Why do I care so much anyway? 

     It all comes back to my theory about my own personal margin of error & also includes a quote I once read in a Grand Homes & Escapes house profile from nytimes.com (tried searching for it so I could provide the link, but surprisingly the word "ochre" didn't yield any results). The homeowner quoted said something like this - that any two pieces of quality will always match or work together. This woman had yellow walls and antique trunks and modern mirrors, but since all of it was "quality" (translation: expensive), the hodpodge of styles created interesting juxtapositions instead of jarring shame-fests.

     I think the inverse concept also holds true - that pieces of poor quality drag down those things around 'em. 

     I'm definitely not a snob. Ha! How could I be? But I am conscious of my home style. A pleasing arrangements of decorative items and furniture gives me great pleasure. I am always searching for the best furniture flow and I delight in what goes on the walls. My home's exterior is something I note (with pride or dismay) every time I leave or enter the driveway.

     I'm not a snob, but it was a step down to move here. I'm just sayin'. I'm probably still smarting from the sale of our home. I loved our 1949 home. We were led to that home. It was in our price range, in the area we wanted to be in, and with a style, that while modest, was very much me ... and us. I loved our wooden floors, our nearly one acre in the middle of the city. We had ward campouts in our meadow. The kids and their friends could explore for an entire morning back there. I loved the bigger kitchen, the family room, the recording studio that Kyle created, our zip line and assorted kid equipment gathered there. No, I didn't love raking 50+ bags of oak leaves over the course of autumn, but those leaves were the price we paid for stunning oaks that dotted the property.

     Okay, so that's done. I really am okay with it in almost every sense. It was the right thing to sell, and I know that.  And when I needed a rental house in our school zone 1.25 years ago, the Lord led me to this place. It was the only house I could find in our school zone, actually, and it fit the bill. It's affordable and close to everything and down the street from wonderful neighbors. We're stop #1 on Corinna's fun bus! Also, we could walk to the pawn shop on the corner if we needed to. Now there's even a tattoo parlor two blocks away. 

     But the part of me that used to cringe when I had to get into our first family car (a giant Pontiac Catalina), and in fact once refused to ride in the car to pick up a friend of mine for a kindergarten playdate, and the part of me that wanted teeth without spaces and hair without waves and toes without long freakish bumps (basically the part of me that cares what other people think!), cares what other people think. My house - even with the modest paint job and lovely plants I've put in - feels just passable. It's a C- at best. On good days, I feel grateful. On insecure days, I itch inside. 

     (Do you remember that part in the film version of "Sense & Sensibility" when the Dashwood family, now without dear father, have to downsize to a brick cottage in the country? Of course, every viewer is drooling at this English gem of a house, but for the women of the story, it's a real coming down in the world. The older brother has inherited the family estate and left his sisters and step-mother with almost nothing. Do you remember that part? I guess my story is nothing like that.)

     My neighbors' shamble of a yard makes me feel worse about where I live because it literally makes it look worse. I feel an absence of pleasure every time I look o'er yonder. 

(see the obvious length difference below?)

     Yes, I already know what I need to do. Harrumph. I'll mow it myself when the ground dries out. Instead of complaining, I should be serving. I know better than to get caught up about home exteriors/interiors. (My brain knows better but my heart hasn't caught up.) People in this world live in cardboard shanty towns and children sleep under bridges. It's fine to take pleasure in a lovely home, but foolish to let something aesthetically inferior pollute the rest of my life joy. I know that, yes, but am still trying to believe it.