Taking the Fun Out of Fun House?

I'm fighting a bad case of the the blues this week. I mope. I sulk. I think about how things should be instead of how they are. I keep writing feel-sorry-for-me Blogger entries, which I delete a few hours later because I'm convinced no one cares anyway.

But I am fighting. I've been listening to upbeat music all day. Purple People Eater, Walkin' on Sunshine, and that meaningless MmmmBop song are all running through my head at the same time. I'm spending the night at my parent's home, watching romantic comedies with Mom, so I'm not alone and gloomy. I am not thinking of

Oh well. So much for not thinking.

Anyway, in my quest to inject some laughter in my life I've come to realize that I live in a pretty serious house. Serious designers and collectibles, serious furniture, serious paint . . . a full-blown grown-up home. And I'm not sure I like it.

There are so many things that don't really fit into my new home!! I don't have a place for any of my Star Wars toys (not that I have that many left -- they paid for college, after all) or my Easy-Bake ovens, or my nurse kits. I no longer feel comfortable buying wonderful junk like this rocket timer, or



this wonderful pillow that actually screams.

So is this a bad trend, or a good trend? I can't decide. Part of me feels the less crap I burden my house with the better off I am because the less I have to clean. But a very important part of me questions this decision because . . . .

Well, because it really isn't a fun decision.

I do have plans for the bathroom. I want to do a mystic fortune-telling shrine in the bathroom, at least until I have enough money to do the wall-to-wall shower I have planned.

I miss kitsch. I miss collecting. I really want a house like Andy's in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, or like that baseball fan in Fever Pitch. That's one reason I wish WW and I had gone out more than once -- I wanted to see his Star Trek room.

And, OK, this is totally stupid, but I have one room in my house I haven't even painted. I always dreamed that would be his room. You know . . . him. The guy I haven't met, the one who is crazy enough to fall in love with me and move into my house, along with his model railroad collection, or video game collection or X-Man collection.

Don't get me wrong, I'm willing to share my house fully -- to redecorate for love. (What a tragedy -- more shopping!!) I'm willing to jettison my pink sheets, maybe get a dinner table, and have his not-so-cool furniture mixed in with my unquestionably upscale thrift-store finds. Repaint the living room so he can actually stand to be in it for five minutes. Even let him choose a bathroom. Heck, he can even have two closets. I want to make it our place instead of mine.

But that room . . . that would be his place, his space away from me and all my insanity. His to paint or to leave white. His to hang NIN posters all over. His to clean or to trash. I also pretend maybe there will be a big-screen TV in there, and that he'll invite me in to watch an occasional movie or comedy since I hate watching TV alone.

Gods, I was trying to make myself fell better by writing a semi-funny entry about kitsch and home humor, and now I'm near crying because I don't have anyone to watch TV with. This sucks. I don't have a life, all I have is a lame-assed blog.