Our house in Libya was one of my favourites. Sure, it had a resident rat living in the clothes dryer pipe, a very inconsistent electricity source and random pipes that would burst causing water to inexplicably shoot through a wall at any given hour of the day – but I loved that house. A lot happened in that house.
When the shipment came off the truck and was all assembled I looked around our house and said to G “it doesn’t feel like our home”. I wanted to sit at our dining table, I wanted to see the framed Libyan wedding jewellery and the big blue bowl that had been with us everywhere. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but when people came to the house I would find myself explaining what we’d left behind “we have this great dining room table, but it’s back in Australia”.
Really? Who cares?
I drove G crazy. Every time he’d suggest having a group over to dinner I’d say the house wasn’t up to it. I found excuses, we didn’t have the right table, we didn’t have enough plates, when really the underlying problem was I wasn’t house proud. Which is just dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Some of the prettiest houses are filled with the ugliest people.
We bought some new plates (I love my new pink plates, that’s them up the top), some new cutlery and little bits and pieces, but more importantly I finally got over myself. Our house is just fine and I’m a tosser for thinking otherwise.
Last night we had ten people come over for dinner. In the afternoon G and I stood in the kitchen together and cooked, we argued over time constraints, did some passive aggressive mumbling and nearly divorced over entree plates, and then we sat down to a really fun evening. This morning we began planning the menu for next weekend and the weekend after.
I like the other stuff, but I can live without it.
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