Except it totally wasn't anonymous. It was totally Bestest Friend.
|I saw right through your flimsy disguise.|
She's right, of course. I adore Bestest Friend's house, right down to the pink bathroom tile and the piano in the living room.
And the Formica! Actual, unironic Formica in the kitchen.
|No, this is not her kitchen, but I would snap this up if I could find it.|
And by sub-optimal, I don't mean that it's not located in a beautiful little New England town, or that it's not walking distance from a state park, or that it's not in a neighborhood just bursting with charm and general coziness.
Because it's absolutely all of those things.
|Did I have a point? I seem to have lost my train of thought.|
|Somewhere outside Texas.|
But New England also has four distinct seasons, and three of them are Cold, Chilly, and Freeze Yer Tits Off.
Listen up: It's not that I identify as a Texan who's never experienced a temperature in single digits or had to shovel snow in May. Nope. But I do identify as a native Midwesterner who's decided she ain't never going to subject herself to five months of winter in a calendar year ever again.
I mean, 90 degrees at bedtime isn't so great, but a high temperature with a negative sign in front of it is not my tall, cold glass of unsweetened tea.
If I look hard enough, I know I can find a little old house that's full of the same Northeastern charm as Bestest Friend's abode.* It won't have a basement, and it probably will have central air. But these are compromises I can make.
All of this makes me really crave a visit to Bestest Friend's place. This is not a great time for me to travel, but soon. Soon.
Don't you DARE take down that pink tile before I can get back up there. That's an order.
*Abode. It's where you abide. It's a private joke. She gets it.