So I just moved into an apartment that I love. I’ve got barely a stick of furniture and all my books and paintings are in Portland, Maine. But I’m comforted to know my daughter will inherit them, along with some furniture I collected over the past 20 years.
I just got an over 500 page catalogue from Restoration Hardware. A place from which I never purchased, even in my glory days, it’s so godawful expensive. But have I tossed the tome? No. I keep looking at it, opening to a random page and slobbering on myself as desire rears its head; it’s like picking a scab. Sooner or later you’ll draw blood.
That’s when it hit me.
This catalogue (and to a much lesser extent, Pottery Barn’s) is porn. For ladies. Of a certain age. Who have champagne tastes and can’t even afford beer.
Okay, okay, I don’t drink, but you know what I mean.
Like a guy who has an addiction to porn, I lust after pretty stuff. I want to be SUNK in that lust. I want to get off on it. I want to HAVE again. And that was all well and good when I was a youngster. But at this point, these urges must be guarded against. After all, I’m on a quest to discover my inner Jedi Knight; I must find her if I’m going to stay alive for the next 13 years. (Don’t ask, I’ve just known ever since I was a child at what age I would shuffle off this mortal coil.) (Terrifyingly enough, I’ve always known I would be around for the end of the world, so…you know, take it with a grain of salt.)
I’m working a lot this week and that’s just the way I like it. I’ll get paid and then wave goodbye to my money the second it gets in my bank account. Hey, that’s what I’m working for. That and enough to get a large French Vanilla Iced Coffee at Mickey D’s each morning. (Seriously, it’s crack. And just like crack, they priced it at the low, lowness of $1 at the start of warm weather. Now that they’ve got a swarm of devotees who don’t want to pay Starbux or Whole Paycheck their entire salary, they’ve jacked it up to $1.48. Hmph.) Still, I’m okay with being poor.
Gee, don’t I sound all zen and shit?
It didn’t happen overnight boyz and grrls. It required much pain, many tears and a lot, I mean a LOT of hard work.
But that RH catalogue really pulled my covers, I’ll tell ya. I feel myself sucked right back into the whirling vortex of whining, “Eeeshhh, I don’t have any money, I’ll never get nice things again, I’ll never buy anything from RH.” Instead of, oh, I don’t know: LOOKING AT MY DAUGHTER WHO’S AMAZING. (Yeah, I know, everybody says that about their kid. But in her case, she really is a Bentley convertible overflowing with amazeballs). She’s smart, she’s weathered the storm of her teen years, she’s a chef for God’s sake, and she’s going to be ALRIGHT. I had a hand in that. And then, well, look at me. I’ve written a damn novel. Hell, I’ve written two and a half novels. Yes they need so much help there’s a telethon coming up, but I did write the bastards. I DID.
So this… not havingness… has to be enough. Because it’s mine. It’s my damn life. I don’t answer to anyone but God. Really, now, come on. How cool is that?
Will I throw the RH catalogue out? Probably. At some point. After I’ve stewed in it a bit longer. And when I finish with that, I just got the Crate & Barrel catalogue yesterday. Enough bathroom reading material to see me through the summer I should think. And by then, it will be time to go to Portland for a visit. I’ll see my daughter and my stuff will be out of storage and in her apartment. I wonder if I’ll kiss any of it, you know, on the DL. And maybe I’ll bring my David Mellon painting back with me (it’s roughly 5′ x 2′).
Hey, a Jedi Knight can dream, can’t she?