I hate eating in the living room, but that's what we do. It's become the default place people eat in the house. When I'm by myself, I eat standing up in the kitchen. When I'm with a close friend, I force them to eat at the kitchen table, which is cute but uncomfortable. And so, here you see, the living-as-dining room.
Should I put the kibosh on this habit and insist on a dining room table?
Suasoria (who I've been calling Susoria for a good three years now and who may or may not be this person) used a hot vocab word in her (his?) comment about my couch. Antimacassars. That's both a once-ubiquitous hair oil and the prophylactic bit of fabric used to protect chairs and sofas from your grubby little hands. My sofa does indeed still have hers. One of them is quite dirty, however.
Anyone know how I can clean that? As you can see, Emma was no help.
Just realized there have been references to Emma, and many of you don't know who she is. Emma is my loud, cranky rabbit of a cat whom I've just discovered I can drug with Benadryl to calm her down. Here she comes now... We did a test run of the Benadryl because she's flying with me to Chicago on Sunday, and at the ripe age of 14, she's never been on a plane. She's awfully vocal--part Siamese--and I don't want my fellow passengers to murder me before I get to the Midwest. Thus, the drugs.
I don't even live there yet and I already see how this faux fireplace is going to annoy me. I want to paint it white. Desperately. But I don't think that's going to fly with the landlady who seems a bit nervous.
Ah, to go from being an owner to being a renter. What's a renter to do?
Just to get this out of the way--I did not take this lovely tree-house apartment.
And I'll tell you why. See this condo building across the alley in back? Come summertime, I hear the people on their porches and smell the grilling. People like to grill in Chicago. I know this because every single apartment I looked at was assessed by the broker according to whether it had a place to grill or not.