I am taking a tiny break, but I feel guilty when I do that so I have got you some awesome biatches to entertain you in my absence.
Today’s guest biatch is a chick I met in front of a lift while in the middle of a panic attack before I was going to speak in front of the most influential bloggers in THE ENTIRE WORLD, who along with a posse of biatches wandered the streets of Sydney with me in search of a cup of Joe. Next week it will be Melbourne and margaritas.
There are two things I really want in life. One of those fancy coffee machines that will do everything, including the froth, and a walk in wardrobe like Carrie had in Sex and the City, and I’d like most of the shoes that was in it as well. Instead I have instant coffee and some kind of wire frame wardrobe monstrosity that is on our wall so you can see every tiny little bit of messiness, and for me that’s alot.
When we chose our house, I knew we where choosing a shitbox. And I did that on purpose. I imagine there will be many shitboxes in our future. When we move in a year and a half into an area with better schools, I will be looking for a shitbox. Because there’s only one way for a shitbox to go and that’s up. If I fix up a house that is already fabulous I’m not really going to get much return on my investment. But a shitbox? Well, the potential is limitless really. And so, when we initially saw our house, packed to the ceiling with bogans, infested with fleas, painted in some kind of cream/nicotine colour, with orange linoleum, cream and brown tilework and old carpet I knew we where on to a winner.
Now it has solar heating, new floors, new paint and thankfully is no longer infested with either fleas or bogans. But I won’t fix up the kitchen or the bathroom, because lets face it, you can only fix up a shitbox so much before it starts looking like a cashed up bogan. And I know that a new kitchen and bathroom while nice are just a bit too good for this shitbox. I’ll save that renovation for the next one, maybe.
All in the hope that one day I will live in a non-shitbox house, with nothing that needs fixing up, a walk in wardrobe, more shoes than I could ever wear and coffee that makes itself. Because let’s face it, as a mother, I spend enough of my time fixing up shit as it is.
Zoey is a reformed perfectionist, writer, photo enthusiast and book devourer. She is the mother of one googy and one squishy. In her former life she bought lots of handbags and wore a vast array of high heels. She lives in the boonies and misses her shoes. She blogs in words and pictures at Good Goog. You can find her on Twitter and Facebook.