I’ve always scoffed at people who redecorate their homes. It seems like such a waste of time and money, not to mention the most bourgeois activity I could imagine.

Now, I’m thinking about redecorating, so I finally understand the motivation: I’m dead inside.

Being dead inside, I’m looking outward at my environment. I hate my curtains. Why do we have to have these ugly curtains that we bought at Target under duress when we moved into this house seven years ago?  And why should I live with corroded hardware in my bathroom sink when I can get vintage replacements from a special bathroom fixtures website? And while I’m at it, why are all the walls white? I used to love colored walls. Which walls should I paint and which colors?

Really, who cares? My house is perfectly fine as is. It’s comfortable and reflects our personalities. Redecorating is just an effort to externalize your loss of identity and self-worth. It’s an act of desperation.

I knew a couple who spend $50,000 to revamp their kitchen. They were wealthy, obviously, and they both wanted to sleep with me. I did sleep with one of them, in the end, but I can’t recall anything about their kitchen. What losers.

I know a divorced guy whose new girlfriend redecorated his entire condo in grey and black, with shit from Macy’s, it looked like. She wanted to erase all signs of his former partner, and eventually she took over every aspect of his life. He appeared to have no opinion on this. When he’s finally dead inside, he might take notice.

But with each passing day, my curtains are an increasing blight on my existence. If only I knew what to replace them with!

I have started following interior design pages on Instagram. I am especially drawn to chinoiserie. Jewel-toned velvet couches are nice too.  I could start hunting in thrift-shops for furniture instead of old cashmere sweaters and Levis!

But I would still be me, this me. This me has no social life and no mental life to speak of. I can’t turn off the TV because the silence will make me anxious. I feel I have already thought about everything there is to think about. I can’t think about the past or I will feel deprived, guilty, and pathetic. I can’t remember how I occupied myself before Covid but I didn’t watch TV all day and night.

People who exercise or go sight-seeing or attend events seem so poignantly deluded. It’s like, Aww, look at them thinking this will change anything! The more fun people appear to be having on boats, at parties, standing on mountains, the more tragic they seem.

The only time I feel at ease is when I go to bed. Being asleep is my idea of living my best life. There is just too much loss to incorporate when I’m conscious, I guess. But meanwhile, I want curtains. There are four big windows in my bedroom and I want complete darkness at night. I want flowing, floor-length velvet curtains or maybe gauzy white curtains. Or maybe white blinds to match the walls. Or maybe custom black-out shades. Something Victorian to match my dresser, or something in keeping with the craftsman style of the house. Or maybe I need to paint the walls a deep cherry red or midnight blue?

The next time someone brings up redecorating, just feel sorry for them. Explain that they are dead inside and I know they will thank you.

Thoughts on my windows, anyone?

The other day, I dutifully checked in on the Ex Wife’s literary efforts, not just because I’m nuts but because they are so breathtakingly stupid. I always come away feeling both gratified and enraged.

I can’t help it! She writes a monthly column for her community paper. If it wasn’t there, I wouldn’t need to read it. But it is there. Like Mount Everest.

So the column this month is about packing up when a fire forces you to evacuate. You don’t have much time and there is limited room in the car.

What stuff would you take if you only had a small suitcase?

The stuff she packed was nothing special: “the important papers, and the photos, my doll, the few pieces of good jewelry, family videos.”

I guess the doll is a little suspect and who still says “good jewelry” but let’s move on.

Safely back at home, she removes the precious things she had stuffed into a washer and dryer, and here’s where the fun begins.

My old volumes of Shakespeare, heavy and dark with wisdom,

A collection of glittered Advent calendars holding all the magic of the season,

The Happy Birthday banner handmade by my father,

A pink sequin dress, old family bible, my Beatle cards.

One shabby, brown flannel shirt, well worn and shared by everyone in the family.

Miranda’s report on Ground Squirrels, complete with illustrations.

An Anniversary card from a man who loves me still.

A popsicle stick-framed picture of a guru, the Batman book, Riley’s small handprint,

The copy of, “An Actor Prepares,” that Cindy gave me all those years ago,

A Smashing Pumpkins tee shirt, a stuffed pink pig named Peddly,

Mike’s old surf jacket.

And a faded needlepoint from my mother, reading,

“Dear House, You Are Really Very Small, Just Big Enough For Love, That’s All.”

Jesus Christ. I can’t even.

How does a person get to be so enchanted with their own self?

I believe this is the key to my fascination. It is unfathomable. And so awful.

I asked my sister what she’d pack if she was in a hurry to evacuate. Her answers were reassuringly normal. Photographs and family mementos.

My husband’s answer was thrillingly concise: Instead of a suitcase, he’s take a guitar case, and a guitar. I could not love him more for this.

Me, I’d take the photos and the things I sleep with. I’d throw all my jewelry into a pillowcase, and if there was time, I’d take my hard drive.

I couldn’t manage to be poetic and nostalgic about my itemized stuff.  And believe me, I tried, on the phone with my sister. I’m just not enough of an idiot, say what you will about me.

Now! What stuff would you take, and for extra points, try to emulate the Ex’s lovingly descriptive tone.

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We are moving box by box, until Monday when the moving truck comes to take the big stuff.  The new house is nice, and a neighbor from across the street gave us a bottle of wine and some cookies to welcome us. We bought huge rattan porch chairs from a guy on Craig’s list, and sitting on the porch enjoying a gentle sea breeze is genuinely idyllic.

But then there’s the window blinds.

I have never had one single thought about window blinds. They played no role in my existence. But that’s over. We’ve entered into a tense conflict over what kind of blinds to get. I want real wood. He wants faux wood, I guess made of vinyl. Wood is expensive and bla bla bla. But vinyl blinds seem creepy and not homey. Why wants vinyl anything?

I kept on promoting wood, and my husband kept on noting that he couldn’t tell the difference, so fake wood was fine. We got increasingly frustrated. It became one of those ‘just admit I’m right’ argument. I suggested that the one who cares most should trump the one who doesn’t fee emotional invested.

I went into another room feeling angry, wronged, resentful, and wounded. Who gives a shit about fucking blinds, I thought. Why give a shit about anything.

I wondered whether the fight was really about control, fear, loss, insecurity. For me, yep, all those things, plus grief, going through old schoolwork and mother’s day cards, art projects, stuffed animals, used hypodermic needles.  I have to keep all these things in my heart while letting go of them physically. At least some of them.

Meanwhile, the motherfucking blinds. I wish we could just get curtains instead. And I need to buy a pink toilet to match the bathtub. I don’t care what it costs because life owes me a pink toilet.