Siddity in the City

Part of my job lately is to leaf through shelter mags. For a gal who has been living in limbo for the better part of the year–hell, for the bulk of her life–spending hours looking at perfect, beautiful homes with “and I commissioned Banksy to graffiti this Art Deco buffet table” personal touches is a bit unsettling.

I get a gut yearning just this side of hunger when I imagine a tiny little space–a studio even–all my own. I don’t need a garden and a white picket fence. Mine is an urban fairy tale. I dream of lofted beds and clever built in shelving.

And now, thanks to my job, I get to look at other people’s lofted beds and built-in shelving and clever repurposed milk crate sound systems every day.

Sigh.

I am not complaining. I am simply explaining, in advance, why my someday home will likely experience more renovations than the cast of Desperate Housewives.