Hamhaus: A Man Cave Unto Him

As I wrote last year, we’re in the process of making our apartment look fit for basic human living. Not like marathon fit, more like fit in the Honey Boo Boo/polishing a turd/Fuck Yeah, America! kind of way. I’m not talking a big remodel or chandeliers or hardwood floors; there’s no plan for actual improvement in this beige-on-bleak jerk-offery. Just little humanizing things that, say, a giraffe would never do: Mop the floors. Organize linens. Clean out junk drawers. Hang the art. Dust off the victrola. Take decades-old, threadbare t-shirts the fiancé claims are ‘still viable’ directly to Goodwill.

“I can see through these,” I say. “You’re wearing vellum paper t-shirts.”

“Still viable!” he says. Eye roll.

Wading through the collective mire of two years of laziness hasn’t been easy. Organizing and cleaning a home takes more than a vacuum and a handful of Adderall (though both are probably helpful?). You can’t just push the Moxie button – unless that button calls a professional cleaning service – and have a gorgeous place in a matter of hours. I didn’t want gorgeous; I wanted organized.

For too many months I’ve been sitting in my grandmother’s chair, watching dust and dishes and clothes accumulate, powerless to stop them. All I’ve wanted to do is Get My Goddamn House In Order (the more focused, responsible cousin of Get My Fucking Shit Together) while being hostage to that home and its burgeoning contents. My hands yearned to fold linens and use the actual linen closet. I longed to clean every dish in the house, or toss them out the window, Amanda Bynes-style. I had to see the bathroom counters, if only just one time. My mom came over and cleaned – twice! (yes, I won The Mom Lottery) – but it didn’t last very long. We just lived much faster than we cared to clean up.

I started on the office, which only took three good hands and two short days to finish. Everything was piled in the living room, which gave me claustrophobic anxiety any time I went near it. Then I started eliminating things, which is a good house rule: No new crap until old crap gets the well-deserved boot. In the end, it was only about $80 to buy new shelving units, curtains, office supplies, and a kraken-like plant that the man couldn’t kill. And voila! A spiffy office was born…

…which is really just a fancy man-cave where dirty dishes go to die. (See also: porn, pizza boxes, sunshine, video games.)

Hey, he’s the breadwinner, not to mention my 24/7 nurse since November of a totally different year. As Chris Rock said, Daddy gets the big piece of chicken. My man deserves a chicken farm conglomerate. And on that farm, he can watch all the porn and eat all the pizza and play all the games and give sun the finger, whenever he fucking wants. That’s why the office was Priority #1. He needed a space to work but also to get far, far away — mostly to the Land of Tyria in Guild Wars 2.

This obviously isn’t a story, just an update that we are finally making this apartment a home we are happy to live in. Because I know once the art is perfectly placed and the clothes are in the closet and the carpets are shampooed and the lighting is just so, we will finally find a new place to live. And if making this place awesome gets me the hell out of here, then LET THERE BE AWESOME.

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