Yesterday was my 30th birthday.

I got a haircut.

A new dress.

And a cupcake.

Thank you for all the lovely birthday wishes.

Love. Adore. Big pink puffy heart. The Zilker Park Kite Festival.

See you next year!

I was just thinking about how many times I’ve moved in my life, and it’s shocking.

Shocking.

My family lived in five different houses growing up. During college, I lived in one dorm and three different apartments. After college, I moved back home (which was a rental at the time because my parents were building a new house), then into the new house, then into an apartment, and then back home again. After graduate school, I moved to Indianapolis, where I lived in two three different apartments with my sister. Then I got married and moved to Chicago into an apartment with my husband. And now we live in an apartment in Austin.

Check my math, but that means I’ve lived in 17 18 different homes, apartments, and dorms.

My parents are now in their 7th house, and it blows my mind to think that there are families that live in the same home for generations. Generations! My family can barely stay in the same house for two years.

I can confidently attribute not having ever lived under a bridge to websites like Move.com. I’ve never had shady landlords, I’ve always lived in relatively nice buildings, and I’ve managed to stay on the good side of the tracks.

I’ve lived next door to many crazy people though. Like the lady who screamed bloody murder in the shower and the couple who ate nothing but curry and the unemployed wannabe gangsta with the never ending baby mama drama. And we can’t forget the guy who couldn’t close a door or cabinet without slamming it and the woman who never walked anywhere, preferring to ride her Segway down the hall to get the mail.

The next time we move, it will be into a house of our own. A house I will die in, because I’m only moving once more in this lifetime if I can help it.

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If there was ever any question about  my family being la-di-da, this couch should clear things riiiiiight up.

We clearly could not afford a decent couch.

Though mink stoles were never an issue.

If my parents did hand over their hard earned 1985 currency for that monstrosity, I’d like to give my mother the opportunity to defend their actions in the comments.

(crickets)

{more crickets}

[call an exterminator there's so many damn crickets]

But when encouraged to write about a couch – any couch I’ve ever encountered in my entire 30 years of couch encountering – this is the couch I instantly thought of.

I called my mom to ask for that one picture of that ugly plaid couch with the she interrupted wooden armrests and big cushion buttons.

Oh, yes.

I know the one.

Because that plaid seared itself onto our young, impressionable brains.

Psst…if you were part of the Hallmark inspirational writing workshop at Blissdom, please leave a link to your couch post. I’d love to read them all.

Graffiti along Lamar Boulevard footbridge in Austin, TX