I have never quite felt comfortable anywhere I lived. I don’t mean the location, but the actual apartment. In my younger years it was often due to stunted(terrifying?) relationships with roommates or the fact that those early apartments were complete dumps closely resembling abandoned housing seen in horror films. (Seriously, what was that smell and how did those roaches get to be that size?)
The first place Mr.JAC and I ever shared was not much of a step up. It was an old 1890’s brothel with a sordid history and we were fairly certain it was some form of haunted.
After getting out of school and moving away, I set out to look for a building that was erected within the past 50 years. I was sick of old dilapidated houses parceled off into awkward apartments that just shouldn’t be. So, for three years we hopped around in ugly suburban complexes built in the 70’s, only to find ourselves here: once again in a 100+ year old building falling apart. I couldn’t help it. This ancient, “charming” brownstone just called out to me. And I am determined to make it Home.
None of my residences have ever been home. No matter what color scheme I used or what I hung on the wall, it never felt right. And so we moved. And moved. And now we have a small one-bedroom apartment with no privacy, no modern luxury, and no chance in Hell of ever attaining the labels “sleek” or “chic”. No way, no how. There are no full, flat walls to place the flat screen, no where to put the love seat, and no space to get creative. We actually had to start in a corner and fan out from there. Our entire living room is set up on a diagonal. The oddly angled juxtaposition somehow manages to be cozy and inviting, and also a little goofy.
When we moved in here, we had to sell all of our sitting room furniture because it’s over-stuffed, over-sized grandeur did not fit through the door, nor would it have fit in the living room. For two months we sat on the floor. Hardwood floor. Then one day we were driving home from Trader Joe’s and I shrieked at Mr.JAC to stop the car. I jumped out and ran to a glorious beacon calling out from the center of a yard sale. It was a blue vinyl chair with tufting and copper nail heading. It was somehow ugly as sin and charming as could be at the same time. The owners had pounded in some really hideous wheels on the bottom, which should have been a crime, but was really a stroke of luck: it didn’t fit in the car and I had to wheel it all the way home.
A home that begins with that chair.
For six weeks we took turns sitting on that chair. When whoever got stuck on the floor could no longer feel his hips or legs we would switch spots. We laughed at how ridiculous it all was. It would have been so easy to go to a furniture place and order an entire living room and just be done with it, but that just seemed so wrong. What is the fun of picking everything from a catalog? Having it all coordinate?
We were addicted to the treasure hunt. We are addicted to the treasure hunt.
We have since added a tiny green velveteen love seat to our blue chair. We bought the love seat from a therapist’s waiting room and carried it all the way home. It was only a few blocks, but it somehow made us appreciate it a little more. The chair and sofa do not match in the least, but they still some how go together.
I look at this room, this building, this neighborhood, and it feels more like home than anywhere else I have lived. The awkward arrangement of our treasures and prized possessions seems familiar, like a reflection of myself. Like me, it doesn’t quite belong. But the whimsical, eclectic mix makes for a unique and comfortable backdrop. These are pieces of our life. Tokens of our past, present, and future. Shabby, tacky, second hand, beautiful.
It may not be the well coiffed, elegant, swanky look you’ll find in a magazine, but when I shut the door to the outside world and turn the lock, I can breathe deeply, kick off my boots, and know this is it: home. Warm. Divine.
