Now that I own a home, my entire life will change – slowly at first, then with increasing velocity, until my daily routine becomes indistinguishable from scenes from a Nancy Meyers film. I will no longer eat every meal out of the same bowl (which I call Bowlie) without washing it, such that it becomes encrusted with successive layers of melted-and-re-congealed cheese and vinegars and other foodstuffs. I will never again eat saltines in the shower. I will never use a toothpick to spear and dispose of a tumbleweed of cat hair. I will become Different.
Now that I own a home, I will place all of my fruit in a wildly expensive bowl; this will be my Fruit Bowl. The Fruit Bowl will be for display only. I shall always move the fruit to a smaller (lesser) bowl before consuming it.
Now that I own a home, I will store all of my dry goods in clear glass jars, with walls a half an inch thick. Children or animals that linger overlong in my kitchen will turn into exquisitely maintained thick-bottomed copper pots. I will awake each morning robed in linen and Marcus Aurelius himself will offer me crystal-clear water from an earthenware jug before performing my ablutions.
Now that I own a home, my bowel movements will come in two varieties: Santa Barbara Mission Revival and Total Self-Actualization.
Now that I own a home, old lovers who have retained all of their charm will drop by unannounced in whimsical-yet-classic dressing gowns. I will feed them chocolate croissants I have concealed in my lift-top studded coffee table; croissants that I baked earlier that morning with a pleasantly stoned Steve Martin. I will write all of my deliciously coy thoughts in a crimson journal in front of a picture window overlooking a garden, pensively thrusting the end of my pen into my mouth before smiling and blushing in a manner that is most becoming, although I myself will be unaware of just how becoming it is. All of my necklaces will be made of silver and turquoise and they will fall an inch and a half above my clitoris when I wear them. I will turn fifty with dignity and grace. My rough-hewn wooden dinner table will be a thousand miles long, and I will seat every friend I have ever made at it.
In my home, which I own, I will have a pleasant and uniquely familiar relationship with my gardener, who is Helen Mirren. We will sit in the garden and eat garden fruits (which I will keep in my Garden Fruit Bowl), fruits that taste of Italy and of Living Life To The Fullest, and we will smile at each other with our lips and our teeth, and we will wear hats so wide they block out the sun.
Now that I own a home, I will have a delivery of bone-white hydrangeas and Italianate patterned throw pillows sent to me every morning. I will have a manicured heart. I will wear reading glasses and laugh with my entire throat.
Now that I own a house, I will store my eggs in an attractive ceramic dish designed express for the purpose of storing eggs. I will store them on the counter, as they do in Europe. In my kitchen it will always be Europe, and Rita Wilson will be my best friend. She will drink oceans of very expensive red wine out of the world’s largest stemware. Her wrists will strain with the effort of lifting my stemware, and she will drink wine as red and thick as congealed wine. “I cannot believe you did that,” she will chuckle as I tell her of my escapades. “But I did do that,” I will tell her, as I consume thickly sliced sheets of pasta from the hand of Bette Midler. “I did that in my house.”
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.