Finders of the Homes of the Things
I have a love-hate relationship with islands.
Not the beachy kind. The ones in kitchens.
The ones that collect all sorts of stuff on top of them and never actually look clean.
My friend and I went on a rant about them this morning.
“We are the finders of the homes of the things, and I don’t always want to be that person,” I said.
And yet, I am that person.
I’m always going to be that person.
And I’m also always going to hate it.
Because I don’t know where all this stuff goes.
Why do we have so much stuff, anyway?
I just got rid of two giant bags of it, and still—sometimes I want to get rid of almost everything. Not because I don’t need it, or love it, or want it, but just because it would feel clean. It would feel supremely orderly in its emptiness. Ridiculous, I know. But if you’re a finder of the homes for the things, you understand.
We clean in a world that doesn’t want to stay clean. It’s maddening. Who designed this place?
I’m writing this in the waiting room of my Subaru dealership, thinking about how this place looks orderly. They even have a separate room called the Quiet Lounge. There’s a man in there, definitely asleep. It’s like watching a bear in a den.
And there are snacks!
Maybe I’ll just stay here.
My son is sitting next to me, reading about Ancient Egypt. There were no kitchen islands in Ancient Egypt either. But I wouldn’t have wanted to live there.
I love my bed. My room.
I love modern medicine. And cappuccino.
And I love my damn kitchen.
Like I said—love/hate.
I love my kitchen, but I also don’t want to be in it for a month. I don’t want to see the counters. I just want to toss all the stuff.
Except that I don’t.
So, after changing the oil in my car, I’ll go back home and just ignore the kitchen island. I’ll keep putting all the stuff in plastic bags until someone says they need it. And if they don’t, it’s going in the trash.
I’ll repeat this until I’m no longer around.
After all, I am the finder of the homes of the things.
Song for this post: “Meet Virginia” came on at the dealership, and I had completely forgotten about it. It’s such a nostalgic gem. 1998 was a year. ❤️
Art: Margaret Olley
