A collector's collectibles...

Anyone who walks into my apartment will notice a few things right off the bat: I have a lot of books, a lot of plants and a lot of — frogs? Yes, it's true. Since I was about five years old, I've amassed a pretty sizable collection of amphibians, including stuffed animals, candle holders, wind chimes, soap dispensers, book marks, and more. I think the obsession started when I was little and Santa Claus bestowed upon me a tadpole.... His name was Kermit and he eventually grew into an African Water Frog, almost three inches in length.

In recent weeks, however, I've started a new collection (and thus developed a new obsession): giraffes. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why I'm so enamored with these creatures...they are pretty tall. And given my small stature, it's only natural I should be drawn to something so impressively large, but I digress.

It started with a candle holder that I ordered at one of those home shows that are all the rage lately. Think Lia Sophia, but with candles. I spotted the giraffe in the catalog and just had to have it. And when I moved into my new apartment a few weeks ago (with its gloriously bare walls and their endless possibilities), I wanted to come up with some unique, creative ways to fill in the blanks, so to speak. To that end, I visited a local flea market where I found a beautiful wooden magazine rack for my living room, a few iron candle holders, a shelf to display items, a Galileo thermometer (which isn't a thermometer at all, but a barometer) and a wood-carved giraffe. Yesterday, I made another trip to the flea market where I spotted a giraffe print painted on glass with a linen backing. Although I fell in love with it, I decide against buying it... until an hour later when my friend K. texted me a photo of the exact same painting. That, to me, was as good a sign as any that I needed that giraffe, and I braved the cold rain to get it.

Following our jaunt through the flea market, I followed K. to an antique co-op down the street from my house where her father used to have a display before opening his own shop in the next town over. I've lived in this area for six years and not once have I set foot in that place. I didn't get to take a close look around because we arrived just 15 minutes before the store closed, but I have every intention of going back.

The thing about flea markets and antique shops, I'm realizing, is that they have everything you could ever possibly hope to find. One of my friends collects vintage Coca-Cola items and now, wherever I go, I'm on the lookout for something he might be interested in...I feverishly text him photos of my finds with whatever relevant information I can find on them, although usually I find reproductions and he's looking for authentic items. Both K. and my aunt collect owls (which seems like an easier collection than giraffes  because I've found hundreds of owls to my two giraffes), so whenever I spot them I have to resist the urge to purchase them for one or the other. I've spent countless hours among the piles of items for sale, searching for that one special piece and have opened my eyes to the treasure trove of shops we have here in Western Massachusetts. It's daunting and exciting at the same time.

At this point in my quest, I'm looking specifically for giraffe-related items (which, believe me, are not as easy to find as one might think), but I'm open to other things...Frogs or books, for instance. Anything to make my new apartment more like a home.

Catching up on...life

I haven't done much in the way of writing — or reading — lately and I don't know why. Actually, I do know why... I'm too exhausted lately to crack open a book.

Part of my problem, I suppose, has been the stress of moving. Last week, I packed up the last five years of life in my very first apartment and moved it all of 20 feet into a larger apartment in the same complex. In doing so, I had to safely store all my belongings, which included bundling my collection of books, and schlepping them down the narrow, unsteady stairs and into my new (humble) abode. The process of moving my books— which took roughly two hours (during commercials of Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice last Thursday)— left me with this mess:

Well read AND well exercised, that's for sure.

After 72 of the most stressful hours of my life (between packing, moving, disposing of furniture and acquiring a few new pieces for my new place), I am finally in... and almost unpacked at this point. Almost. 

Once I finished cleaning out my old apartment on Saturday, I ventured over to the new one with the intention of sitting down to relax. I set up my TV and DVD player and settled onto my futon with the full season of Glee, Season 1. Needless to say, however, I didn't do much in the way of relaxing; instead I set to work putting together my masterpiece, the bookcase:

Pièce de résistance

The books are arranged in no particular order (mostly because I have way too many to want to even try arranging them in some sort of coherent order), but the DVDs are in alphabetical order. If there was any question as to whether I am my father's daughter, I think I just put that issue to rest.

I still have to unpack a few more totes and will have to move the items from my storage area in the basement and hang up the assorted wall art I have, but I suppose now that the hard part is done, I have more than enough time/opportunity to kick back and catch up on my reading.

Existential crisis...

So here's where I'm at today: I give up on love. That's the long and short of it.

Love can't possibly exist for me because if it did, I'd have found it by now, right? The fact that I haven't yet, after at least 10 years of looking, is a testament to the fact that I'm just not cut out for a relationship, at least not at this stage of my life (if ever)... So why keep trying? 

I write often about my dating disasters and lament my lack of a love life to my friends but I always do it with a self-deprecating laugh to show that I'm a good sport about it. At least I try to be. I can take those failed relationships for what they are: the basis for a really great book one day.

But today, after weeks of self-reflection and self-flagellation, and after briefly considering walking in front of a train (a la Anna Karenina), I came to the realization that it's probably time to simply take a break... from men, that is. I can't keep putting my heart out there to take a beating because it hurts too much when I finally get it back — in pieces.

So what should I do with myself?

I suppose the fact that I'll be moving into a new apartment in the coming weeks is a welcome distraction from the utter failure that my life has become. When I moved into my current apartment in 2006 (that's more than five years ago, I'd like to point out...the longest relationship I've ever had has been with my landlord.), I did so with the intention of staying one or two years and moving on. At this juncture, I can say with almost absolute certainty that I'm going to be alone forever, so why not move into something bigger and more comfortable? I may not be able to have pets, but at least I'll have a kitchen in which to cook up casseroles for one on a nightly basis. 

As for how I should spend my time post-move, though, I am at a loss.

What do you do when you realize you're never going to attain the one thing you've ever aspired to be in life?

What other goal can I set myself up to fail, I wonder?