Co-Habitat for Humanity

10/16/06

Few things can make one so intimately aware of just how repulsive your taste in surroundings is as living with a girlfriend or fiancé. I was somewhat dimly aware that I had an affinity for, shall we say, eclectic furniture and belongings before Hanni and I lived together, but moving into our new apartment several weeks ago has brought this into stark, naked view. Apparently most adults approaching the third decade of life don't find it perfectly acceptable to own things predominantly procured from the garbage. What a bunch of Philistines.


As I've lived either on my own or with other bachelors for all of my adult life, I had no real idea that "inherited" furniture repeatedly patched with glue, duct tape and several grosses of nails sticking out of it at awkward, skin-ripping angles should be replaced at some point with new products not made from particle board. And take note, gentlemen; couches and chairs that look like a motel sex-crime investigation under a black light actually cause women to think twice about sitting on them. Near as I can tell, the main difference between men and women is the amount of dirt and semen they're willing to happily ignore in their homes. I can look at the huge, plaid chair in the living room and have no compunction about plopping myself down on it, blissfully dismissing the fact that the upholstery has, over the years, slowly taken on the shade of a burn victim's skin. Hanni looks at the same chair and apparently sees a grotesque object, possibly pulled out of the swamp, that has been used as a prop in a Roman orgy.


B.C. (Before Co-habitation) I was only aware of this information in a vague, sort of offhanded fashion, the way you feel gravity when walking around on the surface of a planet. Combining all of Hanni's worldly possessions with my own has made me aware of it in the way you feels gravity when a large building falls on you.

We're getting new furniture, is what I'm saying. I have no specific, loving attachment to most of these objects, so it will be a novel change to have objects that no one has previously spilled wine on, urinated upon, or been murdered in. I don't mean to paint my future wife as some sort of shrieking demon who is forcing me to get rid of everything near and dear to me (even if she did make me move my toy collection into the office instead of the living room) on the contrary, she is very concerned that the new stuff we get be something we can both live with, and I retain veto power. That being said, clearly the only way new objects are coming through that door is if neither of us is perfectly "happy" with the purchase. Which I believe is the definition of a compromise.

The only real causes for complaint I have on this whole process are when it comes to lamps and paper maché. For whatever bizarre reason, I like horrible lamps. The uglier they are the better I like them. Lamps from the 70's are a particular gold mine for this reason. Made out of suede with an animal print? Bring it on in! You say it has a clear base with a shrunken head inside? Sign me up! What's that? A 4-foot red velvet cigar-shaped lamp that hangs from the ceiling? I'll give you $500! This last example is not a hypothetical; this specific model exists at a local flea market and it takes everything in my power not to get an erection at the thought of owning it. Aside from the fact that it matches nothing in the apartment and we have no place with enough room to put it, it's perfect! I think Hanni's more afraid she'll wake up one night and find me naked, lovingly stroking the lampshade and whispering diabolical plots to it than she is of just how ugly the goddamn thing is.

As far as paper maché goes, Hanni has forbade me to make any more life-size paper maché characters like Ramses, the Egyptian fellow I created last year. Well, she forbade me to make any more that I don't give away. I fail to understand what sort of person doesn't want large, entirely un-functional mannequins hanging around the house. Few things have caused more comment whenever people enter my house than the sight of Ramses standing there looking smug. And he's anatomically correct to boot! I must confess, this is the only viewpoint of hers I cannot at least see where she's coming from.

I'm totally going to open a lamp store. I'll either call it "Let There Be Light," or "Red Light District," I dunno. Aside from the money I don't have and business expertise I don't possess, I see no flaw whatever in this plan.