In my forever goal to live in a vacation home, I have discovered that I have certain faults. I am a hoarder of beautiful things and I have an unhealthy obsession with plates. I don’t think I’ve ever left an antique shop without a new piece of gilded Limoges porcelain, and I don’t think I’ve ever had room service in a hotel without “accidentally” “dropping” a plate into my “bag.” Whatever, I admit it’s a problem and I’m doing so much better about it.
I feel like a Robber Baron of the Gilded Age as I shout to my lights to turn off and go on and set themselves to ridiculous intensity levels like, “ALEXA! Put the lounge lights at 17%!! Hurry!” Instead of complaining, the lights just go to the requested level and a shot of glee courses directly through my body. It’s like having a household staff that is either made up of ghosts or is so efficient that they are never noticed. And I fully understand how unnecessary it is, truly I do, but I’m never going back. I want to remove the light switches from my house. They’re superfluous now and ugly and I don’t want them bothering my aesthetics!
The other day, I was with my friend Jose and we were in the automotive aisle. I’d never been there before. It’s fascinating. You can buy steering wheel covers and wipes that keep your glass from fogging over and even little tubes of paint. I had an unexpectedly delightful time. I bought myself a little air pump so that I could fill the tire back up when I need to. And by me, I mean somebody else.
I have no love or deep appreciation of space. It doesn’t thrill me. I have no real interest in ever visiting even though that might be possible by the time I die. I wouldn’t mind going to a five star resort on the Moon. That’d be extra and surely a good story, but I have no desire to shoot off to Mars and die. Why go anywhere without a Hilton or an Olive Garden?