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I'd been hoping not to spend another winter in New York this year, but, like Oprah says, hope is not a plan, and sometimes being a homeowner in a co-op sucks Rick Solomon balls (I was trying to think of the nastiest balls one might possibly be forced to suck besides donkey or devil) because while owning a home means you can do almost everything that you want—painting, renovating, impressing people and allowing them to think that because you own your place you're totally ahead in the game of life, at least until they give you five minutes more and realize you're just a crazy person—owning a home in a co-op means you're a mere shareholder and that, in my case, you can't do things like renters who sublet do; you can't rent. Even though it's your place, you can't rent it and go away for a while and then come back. You can stay and love it or you can sell and get the fuck out. This is tough because if you've got a good sliver of real estate in this city of piss, you're reluctant to give it up for permanent and fly the coop, especially when you don't know where you want to land.

The upside (besides having a roof over my head because let's also put things in to perspective) is that I have a home that will continue to appreciate while I figure out what order my ducks are supposed to go in, and then put them in said order. Like, in a row. So by the time the ducks are all lined up and I'm ready to sell and I've saved some money from various 21st century jobs, I will probably make somewhere around Brewster's millions. It's probably gong to be pretty sweet. That is, if I don't have another nervous breakdown before I get my hands securely fastened around all the g.d. ducks. They are slippery little suckers.

But going back to the Oprah reference about hope not being a plan and everything, I was thinking that I could just go live in Ikea like that dude did. But like, for longer. And mostly in my undies. And tourists can have their photos taken with me. They can sit on my Malm bed or take a load off on my Karlstad sofa. That's a plan.

In other equally important and relevant news, today is Oprah's birthday. She is 54. I'm sorry I didn't give you more notice, but because I didn't, I won't ask you how you celebrated the anniversary of her natality. I hope O will come visit me in my Ikea kitchen where we will eat hot dogs and Swedish meatballs and drink fountain soda. Since I'll be living there I'll get all that stuff for free.