Our house is a very, very fine house...

When does your house become your home? Is it tied to happiness and memories or length of time spent there? Is it when you put your personality into the place you live? I’ve blasted my personality all over the walls in many abodes, but still in some places I have no attachment.

There are some places I’ve lived in that I consider “homes.” There are other places that I truly felt that I just kind of “stopped by” in my life.

I moved a lot as a kid. Maybe that’s why I don’t make every place “home.” Maybe in the back of my mind, with some places, I knew it wasn’t permanent so therefore I didn’t become emotionally attached. I didn’t imprint my personality or put my whole heart into it.

When I think about it, I have favorites parts of places I’ve laid my head. Some of the favorites were homes, others were just stopping off points in my life.

I had a bedroom that was polka-dotted. I still have the curtains to this day. I won’t say how old the curtains are, but they’re pretty dusty by now.

I once had a bedroom with red velvet walls. The room was creepy and I didn’t like it but I absolutely LOVED the wallpaper. I used to pet it while trying to fall asleep.

I had a bedroom that was peptol-bismol pink. It was hideous and I loved it. I picked the color out and my mother painted my room. It clashed horribly with my olive colored carpet.

I once had a large avocado tree in my back yard. I loved to climb the tree and sit in it for hours. You couldn’t see anything and I didn’t do anything. I just sat there in the tree being me. I also loved the side door to that home. It had multi-colored glass panels. Looking back on it now, I think it looked like a tavern door, but back then I thought it looked cool.

I once had a fabulous fireplace. I used to play Gin Rummy with my boyfriend during the winter. He would get the fire cranking so hot that even though it was 4 degrees outside, we would be inside wearing shorts and t-shirts. I’m sure the wine helped to keep us warm, but the fireplace, oh the fireplace, was wonderful.

One home that I loved was my first apartment. It was a dump. There were two redeeming qualities about the place. One was it was above a restaurant. When I would sleep in, the smell of bacon would waft through the bedroom window to wake me up. mmmmm. The second best feature was that once inside the apartment, you were in a safety bubble. It became it's own little world. There were times that I would enter the place on Friday night and not leave until work on Monday morning. Nobody got in and nobody got out.

I bought a place that was mine, all mine. It was home immediately. I had a blue living room that went very well with my purple couch. My kitchen was crap, the bedrooms were crap, but I just loved every inch of that place.

The new place where I'm living has been taking time to become mine. To become my "home." It's not for the lack of trying. I recently hung up paintings and pictures. I’ve only been there 5 years, so I’d hate to rush into anything like decorating. You know how holes in the walls are permanent. Is it a house or home? I think it's in the middle right now. There are times when I'm driving away from it and the trees are in full bloom, the grass is lush, and my flowers have blossomed and I think, "I love my home." There's a sense of ownership and pride. Then there are times when I find myself battling past owners "customizations" and think holy shit, this house is a money pit and wonder why I ever sold my old home.

Someday I hope to make this place my home. A place where I know my whole heart is, not just a piece of it. Where I know I can rest my weary bones and lay my tired head. A place where I truly feel this is my home and not somebody else's.