I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I am this excited about something that is neither romantic nor luxurious. But there it is. My husband is going to get very, very lucky tonight because at this very moment, he is in the other room building something for me that is making me shiver in sheer, spine-tingling anticipatory delight.

Furniture. Fuuuuuuurnituuuuure. Oh, how it rolls off the tongue and slides into the air. Specifically, one of… two… two!… dressers. I am awash in love. I am tingling and giddy. FURNITURE!

Those who have been with me for the long haul are only too familiar with The Great Flood of ’08, which ruined half our furniture (and we only had a few pieces to begin with) and forced us to move everything we owned into a storage locker in the space of 24 hours. It was traumatic and difficult and we were spectacularly taken care of, but the one lingering aftereffect I have had the most difficulty with was this:

Sudden homelessness + No renter’s insurance = No Money. Further,

No money + no new furniture + new apartment + all our worldly possessions in boxes = ANXIETY OF THE MOST UNPLEASANT KIND.

I’m 33. In my world, an age-appropriate activity regarding furniture does not include scanning Craigsl*st every week in the hopes there will be a couch that doesn’t reek of dogs or cigarettes available for less than $100. No. That is something I did several times in my early twenties and I think it would be enough to say I am so OVER that part of my life. In my world, at 33, women are finding cute antique pieces to refinish at out-of-the-way darling little shops hidden away on charming side streets in sleepy seaside towns while their husbands look trim and dashing in pressed khakis as they inspect the binding on old, rare books.

OR, they are scrubbing purple kool-aid out of a couch that looks for all the world like the carcass of a hollowed out dead paisley cow in a living room that smells a little bit like poo and a lot like dried applesauce while their husbands fish the Lego pieces out of the toilet that their two-year-old dropped in there with their bare hands and wipe them on bleach-splotched jeans that may or may not have been laundered in over a week.

Either way. Either one of those scenarios, perfectly acceptable in my vision of what 33-year-old women should be doing when it comes to furniture. Not scanning the pages of the IKEA catalogue and trying to calculate the exact dollar per cubic centimetre ratio for each and every dresser to decide which is the best buy. She should at least be able to decide she likes a dresser because, ohhh, it’s pretty!

The last two months have been difficult for me, to say the least. I am happy to be broke, disorganized, and slightly smelly as long as it’s because I’m the edge of exhaustion thanks to three kids and a dog or two. If I am to be forced to have uninterrupted nights of sleep and clothes that totally lack the smell of spitup, WELL, THEN. I would like my entire life to be pristine and organized, THANK YOU. I demand one scenario or the other, universe! Do you hear me?!

So. The sounds of hammering and swearing from the other room are music to my ears right now. Tonight is the first step to me giving in to every Rachael Ray, Julie Morgenstern, Jillian Michaels impulse I have ever had. Tonight marks the night I get to be one or the other of the two perfect 33-year-olds in my mind’s eye. Circumstances dictate that it will be the first scenario, so I bought dressers and a Julie Morgenstern book, and I’m going to start watching Rachael Ray and letting Jill kick my hiney every morning.

Next week, I’ll buy khakis for my husband. But I’m going to buy bleach for his jeans, too.

Just in case.