16 June 2006
3 dispatches from Hell Week: sweet bungalow dreams
aside from that whole Hell Week thing, it would be hard to improve upon my life at the moment. things are pretty peachy right now. the only way i can imagine taking it to the next level would be to live in a bungalow.
my family always had a design philosophy that people should be able to walk into your home and know you, intimately. thus, my apartment is like pulling up a red chair and sitting in the center of my mind. you're surrounded by piles, pictures, pop culture, books and vieve fur. all these things i hold dear.
but if we were to describe my personality architecturally, i would undoubtedly be a bungalow. in either the cape cod or queen anne style. it's compact, quirky, very much old school, and often surrounded by green. this is probably because i grew up in mid-town memphis surrounded by bungalows and watched entirely too much meet me in st. louis as a very young girl. as a result, bungalow living is really the only life for me.
to begin with there's something relaxing about the very word. bungalow. it's so temporal, casual, beachy almost, yet without the smell. the thought of home-ownership is second only to parenthood in total complete and utter grownupy scariness, but i'd be up for a bungalow. it sounds less like a major financial investment and more like a bunkbed. also, you're not just getting a home, you're buying into bungalow living- a way of life defined by opened windows, summer breezes, lazily rotating fans and drinks with umbrellas. and who doesn't like the sound of that?
to me, bungalow living would be a curious blend of donna reed and lana turner. bungalowsoline (see! it works well with my prefixes so it was obviously meant to be!) would cook quiches and wear tight sweaters. she would have clothes strewn all over the place without stressing about it and diaphanous pastel curtains that fluttered in the wind. she would never apologize that her bungalow is messy when she knows it isn't. and she would rock those red stilleto slippers with the boa fluff. you know the ones.
at this point, bungalowsoline is renting in chicago, where she could not afford to purchase a closet if she so desired. but someday (because bungalowsoline really bought into that mariah carey song "make it happen" and, therefore, has unshakeable faith that it will), we'll all be sitting in swings on the porch of a chicago/boston/memphis/ savannah/parisian bungalow, perusing each other's plays and novels and films, drinking diet coke out of yellow acryllic wine glasses and remembering merrily, merrily when jack black's body was but a dream.