Cozy

I complain about my poor, innocent apartment pretty frequently. It gets too chilly, and then too hot, the kitchen is smaller than my kid sister's bathroom, the patio door squeaks, and it's disastrously far from work.

But in the last month or so I've hosted a couple of different groups of friends for dinner and that makes me happier with the pad. In New Orleans, we always had little dinner soirees (okay, it was really just the three of us) at Katherine's, with her perfect tiny kitchen and warm, fluffy couch and the sound of the gerbils spinning happily on their wheel. And in Kansas City I tried not to ever let friends see where I lived, it was such a horrid place. I hosted a lot of friends in Peace Corps but I suppose when you're going on two weeks without a shower and you're eating sardine omelets you don't much worry about the cute factor of your abode.

My first apartment here in the Cities has begun to grow on me. Although I'm itching to leave and move closer to work, I am starting to love the quirk of the occassionally-working sink and the weird noise the bathroom vent makes (is that a heater? what is that thing in the ceiling? does it have a purpose other than making noises?). My friend and thesis advisor, Dabney, used to tease me for romanticizing everything. He told me I could romanticize a lump of coal. The older I get, the more I agree with him. But I think I just grow into certain things, places, experiences, and begin to love them for their flaws. There's an ownership in loving a place you have to "work" to love. I will not go so far as to say I love the Cities. I don't. The cold makes me so sad. But the "work" of loving what this place has to offer is becoming more enjoyable and that includes my crappy, cozy apartment.

Above are the kind souls that visited for dinner last night. Thank you for your company, friends. And Nate, thank you for helping me duct tape my chair.