View from the North 40

Because we have now reached a critical point in the aging process of our white trash mansion, my husband and I are now considering the possibility of looking into maybe sometime soon upgrading, or “swapping out,” our living accommodations. I know that doesn’t sound like much of a commitment, but we do have some time before our current home starts to actually decompose.

Months and months, at least — or possibly May when the temperature rises.

Even then, it will just be the beginning of decomposition, so we have a few weeks, maybe more — let’s be positive — before the rot is noticeable, and some indeterminable time after that before the stench rises from this homely carcass.

In the meantime, we’ve been thinking about all the dreamy details of what we’d like for design features in our new home — and then countering those warm fuzzy thoughts with the cold harsh reality written in the dry folds of our pocketbook.

There in the balance of those two points is our narrow window of options.

You know what I like to say about a narrow window of options, don’t you? No you don’t, so I’ll tell you: If you look out that window from a distance away, you can’t see much, but if you walk up to it, throw it open and stick your head out there to look around, you’ll see a whole horizon of possibilities.

Sometimes that horizon is a cold and barren place, but even then, if you keep looking closer, you can always find something to admire: colorful lichens, interesting rocks, the occasional pigeon. This, of course, is just a metaphor. I don’t plan on decorating my home with lichens and pigeons. Rocks maybe, but I wouldn’t be the first person to do that, so don't judge me.

The thing I've decided about a home, though, is that it is kind of the inanimate, structural representation of who you are, what you are about — a personal statement of sorts.

It’s an intimidating thing, when you think about it, to buy, build or create a home. I feel like I should start with a mission statement and a set of objective goals about the personal message I want my home to portray.

I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing, though.

Let’s face it, my current home started out as a statement that said, “We are college students who only care that we had to pay $1,000 to put a roof over our heads.” Besides, we were only going to live here a few years.

A few decades later, that statement has devolved into: “These people have messed-up priorities.”

I fully expect that, in the coming months, my dreamy optimism for a lovely villa will turn into a tormenting nightmare, and a true test of character, which I may or may not pass.

Hang on, readers, I’m going to do my best to drag you out onto this ride with me.

(No, it’s not a threat, just a friendly reminder to schedule in a little time for me, me, me and maybe take mood stabilizing meds if you got ’em, [email protected].)