I've been sick as a dying puppy lately. I couldn't breath out of my nose last night and tossed and turned and had dreams about Will Ferrell serving me non-dairy ice cream in Paris while I was running late for a shuttle bus to take me to a water park.
Oy. Uck. Blech.
Last weeks pre-sickly party at my pad was real nice. It made me feel like I might be a grown-up, cooking a meal and buying bouquets of flowers for a bachelorette dinner party... very Mrs. Dalloway of me. Then I realized: I am almost 31 and am actually a grown-up. So maybe I should start buying grown-up things; less chotzkys, more cheese boards.
I like these for linens, afternoon tea style:
And a moroccan backsplash in the kitchen, because adults cook and don't just live off of 2am chicken, swiss, bacon, no mayo, extra mustard, lettuce and tomato on a hero sandwiches from the corner store that your roommates nickname "Rat Deli":
In said kitchen I will have a fancy pot that would make me look like I know what I'm doing even if I only throw a box of Amy's shells, dirty Brooklyn water, and a pat of butter inside:
This is nice, you know, to put snacks in:
or all of these:
Because I am a classy yet slobby mess who will always need a placemat:
A great waste of money (I almost wrote a "grate" waste of money. That's what happens when you get old. Dad jokes):
Something completely unnecessary that shows off your disposable income. A cheese grater. Made out of oak and stainless steal. With a little drawer box for your final product. So ridiculous.
And when I finally have matching chairs in my kitchen and not broken Ikea stools:
I will hand-write letters to my mother in this airy nook.
I guess I associate adulthood with the kitchen. Huh.
Alright, little one, I'm off to bed. Fingers crossed I can breath tonight, the Nyquil is just kickkiiiingggg innnnn.