This little blog feels incredibly vulnerable and embarrassing. Childish, silly & girlish. It's like admitting that I still fantasize about having a Barbie Dream House. I mean, we *did* have a Barbie Dream House (lucky girls, we were!), but it wasn't as exciting as WANTING a Barbie Dream House before we actually got one.
It feels totally white trash and base to admit to wanting more, to laying in bed and doing nothing but what I can barely afford: fantasizing. It's not like this gets me any closer to the dream of custom home ownership . . . does it? I mean, I could be *working*.
I wonder how many people who watch the design shows on HGTV are actually home owners, and beyond that how many of them can actually afford (financially & time-wise) to do any of the stuff on there.
I owned a house once. Well, I mean I had a mortgage once. It's my ex-husband's now. The first thing I did after buying it was have a bunch of berber carpeting installed, charged to one of my credit cards. Excuse me, berber-LIKE. I also ordered beautiful custom-sized honeycomb shades for the windows. They were so nice. But it still wasn't a dream house, even though I gave thanks for it every day.
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