Y’all, this whole “living out of boxes” thing is for the birds. THE ANGRY BIRDS, I tell you.
Three weeks ago, Harrison and I packed up and moved to my parent’s house for the weekdays. On the weekends, we head back to our house with my husband and it’s weird to live out of a suitcase in your own home. The majority of our weekends are spent cleaning for house showings and packing our belongings – since we don’t know when we will close on our house (yay, contingent offer), I want to get a head start so we can hit the dusty trail as soon as our phone rings. Most of our “extras” are already packed into boxes – servingware, the guest bedroom, my books, winter clothing, etc. Which means I hosted Mother’s Day supper on my regular dishes with paper napkins when I would usually pull out my grandmother’s fine china and linens.
First world problems, I know.
I’ve always liked having my things around me, so seeing everything material that I hold dear in boxes makes my little heart shrivel. So I took some of my favorite pictures from our gallery wall and hung them in my new office, along with placing a few of my favorite books on the bookcase next to my desk. My coworker’s tease me that my office is more “moved-in” than most, but I smile and tell them it is the only place where I have my pictures and books and style anymore.
Then there’s the real estate listings. The drooling over homes we can never afford and critically perusing the ones we can. Then in the evening, we pile into the car and do the slow creep by the houses we loved online until someone peeks out their dining room window and wonders if we’re killers. (side note: there’s only room for one body in our trunk so people can rest easy on the serial killer thing.)
Then I’m all GET ON PINTEREST AND PIN ALL THE THINGS! until I think I might go crazy if blue glass tile is not in my next house the moment I move in. I get off on tangents on Pinterest about pantries and laundry rooms and then I know I’ve really gone off the deep edge of fantasy decorating.
And if the house I love goes under contract? Cue the cursing and handful of peanut M&Ms and swearing that we will never, ever find another house we love. So then I get on the websites of apartments and try to figure out what life would be like in a 1000 sq ft apartment with a toddler and dog and then I start pinning all the apartment things.
Until I find another house I love.
Rinse and repeat.
Please don’t judge me too harshly by this insane time in my life.
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