I want a house.

This year the “it” thing is to have a house.  Everyone’s buying ‘em…except me.  I can’t seem to even wrap my head around it.  All those zeros—so many, in fact, they stop mattering to me.  But I’m sure they’d matter to a bank.

Our friend Mandy just bought a lovely spot on a hill in Silver Lake.  When I was visiting LA for my birthday she had us over to drool while Rion/Ryan made us salmon and kale salad. (Kale is also very in this year).

Of course I want a house, too.  A lot.  I’ve always loved houses.  When I was a kid I used to draw floor plans on the back of prayer request cards during church sermons (my mom always said they seemed backward to her, so I didn’t think architecture would be a good move for me).  I also used to buy floor plan books from the grocery store—“More Beautiful Houses!” (as though choosing a Sears Catalogue-type plan would be good rather than putting your own ideas in), which my mom also hated.

In the end I never moved as a kid—not even once.  My parents bought their house in the 70s and my mom still lives there.  Because I love moving and change I compensated in the only way I knew how: I have, at some point during my childhood, occupied every single bedroom at least once.  It’s not easy for a five year old to move a bedframe, but it can be done.

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