-Until I have a family of my own, my “home” will always be my parents’ house on Long Island, where I lived until I was eighteen (and where my mom and dad still reside).  Twentysomethings tend to lead a nomadic existence and I’m no exception, having lived in five different apartments on two coasts since college.  At two and a half years, I’ve inhabited my current apartment in West Hollywood the longest.  Though I love my place and have taken great care to furnish it properly, to call it a home would still be a stretch.  Sure I have birth announcements and holiday cards on the refrigerator, but there’s also a beer funnel in the cabinet above it.  Yes, the two works of non-fiction I’m currently reading rest on my nightstand, but on the shelf below sit two shotglasses, a flask from a sorority date party, some Mardi Gras beads, and a piggy bank in the shape of a miniature Yankees helmet.  An apartment?  Yes.  A frat house?  Perhaps.  A home?  Not so much.

-My dream is to one day live somewhere that doesn’t have wires from my TV and router running all along the walls, under the carpet, and around doorways.  Because nothing says “classy” like exposed coaxial cable.

-Sometimes I think I enjoy traveling not so much for the experience, but for the opportunity to show off by displaying all of my Frommer’s guides on the bookshelf.

-The other day I noticed that the little tray thing that holds the silverware in my dishwasher had some dried food stuck to it.  I thought to myself, this really needs to go in the… oh wait.