STUFFED

There's a townhome community Arnel and I have been wanting to live in for a few years now. The bad news is it's in Irvine -- ridiculously overpriced and depressingly sterile. The good news is it's in Irvine -- well planned and situated, conveniently located near stores, restaurants and movie theaters, and safe (consistently low crime rates).

We love this particular gated tract because it was designed quite beautifully in the Italian Renaissance style (which at first was a bit too opulent for my taste but hey, this place has won design awards), and is different from anything else we've seen in this area. The units are tri-level, with cathedral ceilings and (my favorite detail) rows of windows that seem to soar upwards endlessly. The space may be intimate (i.e. small), but feels connected to the outside, where fountains gurgle happily. It reminds me of city living, but without the noise, dirt, and paranoia. Like I said, sterile.

We decided a while back that we wouldn't purchase a detached home because we didn't want to deal with all the maintenance and expense involved, and we really don't need all that space anyway. We don't have children who need room to run around and play in, and the cat sleeps all day and rarely ventures outside. So now we've found a place where we would like to live and we finally can afford to do so, but there's still a vexing issue. My stuff.

Arnel likes to call everything in our current home my stuff, and he is right (although for the record I am not a packrat, just a frustrated interior designer). When I first met him, all he had was a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs: a full-sized futon on a wood slatted platform, two metal folding chairs, and a "desk" consisting of two squat file cabinets and a distressed plank of wood balanced on top. He didn't even have plates and owned mismatched cutlery enough for two persons (maybe). And his towels were "borrowed" from a few hotels he stayed in during his business trips (two-star establishments, unfortunately). Everything he owned could fit in his car -- and did, as I learned when he finally moved out to move in with me.

Me, on the other hand. Well first let me back up and say that I've always believed in living as well as I could afford to. Even when I moved into my first studio apartment, I made it as comfortable as I could. I had a few pieces of real furniture, a few sets of matching sheets, ultra-soft and plush towels, and a full set of china. OK, granted I didn't have a kitchen then so I had to wash my delicate plates and stainless steel cutlery in the bathroom while I showered -- but I absolutely refused to dine on paper plates and plastic forks. Call me a snob, but I prefer to think of myself as an environmentalist (just visualize all the felled trees and crowded landfills!).

You can imagine all I possessed by the time he met me. For instance, as I've written before, it took 20 hours for me to move from my roomy LA 9th-floor flat to my slightly-smaller South Orange County ground-floor box five years ago. I couldn't even fit my dining table, which seats eight, in my new apartment -- so off it went into the garage. It still won't fit in our two-bedroom townhome, so it continues to keep our cars company. Arnel keeps asking me to sell it, but I hang on to it the way I cling to my skinny jeans: the day it finally fits would mean our house was now the right size and shape.

Just a few hours ago, he walked into the office/guest room where I blog and listen to music. He was silent for a while, and I saw his eyes survey every nook and cranny of the space. His eyes stopped at all the pause points: each of the scrolled iron bookshelves, my huge solid mahogany-stained desk with sawhorse legs, swiveling schoolhouse chair with arms, the mahogany-and-bamboo console (which now functions as office furniture because it couldn't fit behind the sofa in the living room downstairs). He scanned the lamps, books, cds, plants, artwork, office and sound equipment, etc. ad nauseum. "We can't move," he groaned, "How can we move with all this shit? We can't!"

"Now look here," I answered gently but firmly, "I've moved 14 times, each time with twice more stuff than I had the move before, and it always got done. We can do it." I expected him to argue with me because I know he remembers the last two times we moved (he says he still suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result). Surprisingly he didn't say a word; he seemed to be content with my response and quietly left the room (no doubt to take inventory of all "my" stuff in the bedroom). I swiveled my chair around to face the computer and type on the keyboard.

"Http://www.ebay.com" I typed. Maybe I'll find some nice people out there willing to give some (all right -- a lot) of my stuff a new home. Just so we can finally move ourselves into a nice, new slightly-larger home -- where the dining room no longer has to hide in the garage and where there's (hopefully) room enough for a daybed I've had my eye on for quite some time now.

It will be just the perfect thing for Arnel to plop and chill out on the next time we contemplate moving again.

Comments

[sistah #1]

remember -- i might need some furniture of my own in the somewhat near future. maybe you can consider my place off-site storage; i'll use the items until you want them back :)

[mell]

wow, nice day bed! :D

One of my greatest frustration right now is not being able to afford a home for my family. All I can afford right now are the houses in compton and similar neigborhoods. *sigh*

[Gigi]

Sistah#1 - Do you want just my extra furniture, or do you want Arnel's too? :)

Mell - I hear you loud and clear. Homes just aren't worth what they're going for nowadays. I remember 10 years ago when my ex and I bought a house in San Marino; it was spacious but not posh or grand. Today, the tiny townhome (i.e. condo) I was describing in my post will cost more than we paid for the house. Of course, that house is probably worth at least a couple of millions today. I never would have paid even half of that then, and certainly wouldn't pay what it's currently worth (even if I could). I don't know if it's just me, but I believe that a million-dollar home should resemble something closer to an estate, rather than "just" a four-bedroom tract home.