For Better, Formica, Four Seasons, Forget It

An anonymous Drunkard responded to yesterday's post about the things I don't want in my dream house.

Except it totally wasn't anonymous. It was totally Bestest Friend.

I saw right through your flimsy disguise.

And as she pointed out, my post basically described her own house to a T.

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.

The thing about Bestest Friend's house, however - besides being already at capacity with her little three-person family - is that it is located in what for me is a sub-optimal location.

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.

Oh, right! Location! You see, it's just that Bestest Friend's adorable New England house is located...in New England.

Somewhere outside Texas.

I love New England. I really do. It has history, and great natural beauty, and those people know how to drink, whooo boy. I mean, in Boston, they still think the show "Cheers" was a PSA for temperance, knowhutimean?

But New England also has four distinct seasons, and three of them are Cold, Chilly, and Freeze Yer Tits Off.

Exactamundo.

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.