eye heart internet

Once upon a time, there lived a young Franco-American newlywed couple in a clean, no-maintenance apartment . Their days were spent relishing variable quantities of muscat and merguez seated on the spacious terrace that overlooked the neighborhood. Listlessly ignoring the gentle bubbling of the nearby fountain, saying much, little or nothing at all to one another, her feet invariably perched themselves onto the edge of his chair. They were blackened with days spent barefoot but he didn’t seem to mind. The lovers sprawled, purred, licking their paws like cats, fat with pleasure and void of worry. The simplicity of life seemed granted, with an ease that can only be unmerited, and they basked unquestioningly in its revel.

Then one day they smoked crack and bought a house.

Okay, well they, er, we, didn’t exactly smoke crack, but we might as well have, or maybe we should now, to forget this crazy mess.

I love my house, really. I love looking at its putrid moldy walls and imagining what I’m going to do when I get my grubby paint-lusting hands on them. I l adore the way every day we draw closer to the moment when the leaky upstairs toilet is going to fall through the rotting floorboards only to land upon my dining room table. My spoiled bratty heart longs for the day, the most glorious day, the oh so far away day when we have redone the electricity.

And the Plumbing.

And installed some kind of ventilation system.

And changed the windows.And moved our bedroom into the attic so that we’ll be able have a bedroom big enough for a jacuzzi.

That’s not asking much, is it?

 I mean, do sparks flying out of light sockets, all of the light sockets, whenever I plug in a toaster really represent that much of a risk?

Meanwhile, my Manboy is being oh so manly. Did I mention that I’m a spoiled brat, and said something to the order of  “‘Oh, ” #snaps fingers# ”I think I’d rather have the kitchen in that room… over there… and I want rock walls”, one day, and Frenchie just gets up and gets to work on my tiniest whim. Wow this is a relationship I can see maintaining until my dying day, like, “Let me just make myself a rum and coke and I’ll watch you work. Ooh, too much noise…and…” #cough, cough#, “dust… hmm, maybe I’ll just be in the next room if you need me sweetie-pie.”

I stood silently by as what used to be my living room was transformed into this nameless entity.

Ceiling,

and walls.

I think it was the orange walls that sent me on this mission to begin with. I just could not, for the love of a sledgehammer, look at them any longer.

The good news is that Manboy really digs this breaking stuff, and is actually a psychotic maniac perfectionist to the point that I don’t have to worry about my house falling to tidbits and  dusty pieces. Did I mention that it’s three stories? And we have a cellar. Very French, I know.

“insert photo here”

This is the part where I had planned on inserting a gratuitous nipple shot of a scantily clad Manboy, dusty, sweaty, and hard at work, but since I am a frecking ignoramous and only have the free starter version of photoshop  and couldn’t figure how to cut off his face, you’ll just have to close your eyes and imagine.

#closes eyes#

ahh.